


Revanche

by ChroniclyFlaming



Category: Star Wars: Knights of the Old Republic, Star Wars: The Old Republic
Genre: F/M, Gen, Pre-KOTOR, Slow Burn, bastila is confused, long story, revan is gross, revan is lost but thinks bastila has map
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-02
Updated: 2016-12-18
Packaged: 2018-02-15 22:32:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 136,875
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2245791
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChroniclyFlaming/pseuds/ChroniclyFlaming
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The mission to capture Darth Revan goes according to plan--except for the last part about returning to the Council with her prisoner. Unfortunately for the Jedi Padawan that rescued the Sith, now she's trapped inside a damaged ship, in unknown territory, and it's possible that Revan didn't suffer nearly enough brain damage to render him unable to speak.  Bastila/MRevan. Complete.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I had a short mindblurt one day, just a minor story idea that followed questions like, 'What happened after Bastila captured Revan? Did she have to drag him back to the ship? How did they get back to the Republic? Did she squeeze both of them into an escape pod? Was he just a drooling mess the whole time?' My story basically started off this with for the plot: Before mind wipe, after brain damage, Revan still himself and totally inappropriate with captor.
> 
> This is what it bred:
> 
> (Will be posted in three parts, hopefully.)

**Author's Note:  
**

**I had a short mindblurt one day, just a minor story idea that followed questions like, 'What happened after Bastila captured Revan? Did she have to drag him back to the ship? How did they get back to the Republic? Did she squeeze both of them into an escape pod? Was he just a drooling mess the whole time?' My story basically started off this with for the plot: Before mind wipe, after brain damage, Revan still himself and totally inappropriate with captor.  
**

**This is what it bred:  
**

****(Will be posted in three parts, hopefully.)** **

* * *

_You were laying on the carpet_

_like you're satin in a coffin._

_You said, "Do you believe what you're sayin'?"_

_Yeah right now, but not that often._

_Are you dead or are you sleepin'?_

_Are you dead or are you sleepin'?_

_Are you dead or are you sleepin'?_

_God, I sure hope you are dead._

**-Satin in a Coffin, Modest Mouse**

* * *

Bright white, safe, whole, _all_

Beyond pain.

Until—

A scream with a tongue and lips and vocal chords that were not there from the air that nonexistent lungs. _Light._ It filled the absent eyes and unreal senses. A push into the chest, lung, heart that were so many illusions. There could be no pain as that required what was not imaginary.

_"Breathe."_

How could one still hear when they no longer had ears?

No, it would not be felt, it would be escaped in that wholeness that could be reached if one stretched to find it—

If one was not being slapped back into consciousness.

Possession of a body, trapped, in here, he (she) was in here

(they were)

Here.

Alive.

The light crushed. Separation. Birthed and shoved out. He, him, halved and parted and unwhole. Alone, again to suffer the crushing blow of consciousness and acknowledgement of a body with all its nerves that screamed.

Alone, he remembered pain.

Oh it hurt please. Throbbing head weighing thousands of pounds. A head. He can almost see himself. He can almost _see._

"Breathe."

Live.

Name, a name called. For a moment, he did not know who that was. Who? Who could that be? Hang back. Wait.

Should he answer?

But the voice demanded that a response. You did not disobey it. The voice did not make requests. "Revan."

Revan, live. You must, you _must._

 _"Breathe_."

Well, _alright._

* * *

Her head rose with an audible creak and her jaw clicked. Swallow.

Around them, the fires no longer raged and the turbo lasers had stopped shining with their lethal beauty. Ships retreated, died, winked out. Through the viewer, she had watched all of it with the certainty that any second they would notice this lone weakened ship limping from the embers of the bay, watched the retreat of Republic and Sith fighters together from this area. Rounded and sharp ships alike growing distant. All had left long ago, and Bastila could unclench this fist in her lap and loosen the sweaty fingers so locked and stuck together.

Every sound, every tick, made her tense and pause. Things to be studied. Order inside it, ever pulse, beat-beat-beat under her own thoughts, so cluttered and of animal panic. Inspect herself again and again. The walls, the controls, the figure.

She had escaped. She was here.

Let go of the dumb fear, all of it. Her life had been given up to the Force, surrendered up years ago, she had accepted and known that. Since her first true battle, when soldiers had slipped past the guards and come after her, the Jedi with that Battle Meditation. Drawn her lightsaber in truth. She had not hesitated striking the intruders down, and her concentration towards the troops had lapsed only momentarily. Saw the damage her yellow single blade had done, then eventually turned back to the battle. Her concentration came back to her with such ease that Bastila had been fiercely proud. She was _not too young_ , as her Master had feared. Or too prone to anger that might closer her off from others, those that were under her protection and depending upon her.

Bastila had proved that the reluctant faith they'd had in her was well-placed after all. That she had been right, to rush ahead and to face him, nearly alone at that.

She had been the one to continually strike blows against the Sith, to help the Republic against those that had sworn to save it years ago, risen high in the Order for one that wasn't yet a Knight, led troops through Sith space, had led the strike team to face Revan…now where was she, the one so gifted?

 _Here_ was a small freighter. Something for minor journeys, hops to nearby planets, if that. As bad as the warped boards and fried chips that had blazed weakly at her fingertips, there was yet another concern.

What was worse, somehow, was the knot inside her, this _pull_ —sickening, the sudden whole Bastila felt through the Force, so attached to her. Even with that collar, still, she could feel it and knew what it meant. Another thing she had read about but never experienced firsthand, not even with her own Master or her fellow pupils or the soldiers that she had fought with.

Of all people to have developed such an unwanted attachment through the Force with…

And still Revan continued breathing.

She checked the navigation system, the maps that no longer flickered on, the wiped memory. Nothing had changed.

Revan was not one for forgetting the small details. He had been a clever creature. Or at least, not a complete idiot. She had been told more than once, with some disgust, that he had made sure to grab communication relays and important maps. Before he had left and turned traitor, he'd made sure to backup databases. Dutiful and thoughtful, Revan had wanted and known that information could be the most important thing in a war. The Republic (and she remembered the look on that colonel's face as she'd told a younger Bastila of how the Sith Empire had grown so easily) had even known of his plans, if not helping him outright create maps of all he needed. They had given him all the keys.

This ship was anonymous, ominously so.

Bastila could remember the smoothness of that chair before the yolk, the Force so strongly with her still reach out and hold the ship together. Allowed her peace enough to take in the damage and ignore the tendrils of fear touch her heart, and had let Bastila coast this craft away (briefly, so briefly) from the fires that were all that was left of the proud flagship that had stalked around the Republic and whose hulls and shape Bastila knew so well by now.

The Force had given her the chance to hold herself together and retrieve the device from her fellow Jedi's body, to carry Revan through the hallways and steered away all the droids and soldiers. A confirmation that what she was doing was correct, perhaps. The Masters had spoken of such 'luck' and told their students to not question such things.

Thus Bastila wouldn't.

It didn't even matter, not now.

She had brought him here, and was now stuck with him. Perhaps he would awake, if the Force allowed it.

With that neural collar on him, tied up and drugged, she could take him. He was not so physically intimidating, especially out of that armor. No Malak. Unarmed as well for that matter. Exposed, as he hadn't been for as long as he'd stepped into the limelight. Bastila knew all the old stories.

Yet, despite the intrusion, the Sith Lord Revan might not even be her biggest concern.

There was something worse to fear, and it was in the front of the ship. Wires seemingly clipped, and melted. Tangles of them. Previous lessons, on Force manipulations, on the mechanics of ships, piloting lessons. None of it seemed helpful, and Bastila could spend the rest of her life, how little an amount of time that might be, cursing that she'd chosen this freighter—this small freighter, meant for the tiniest of voyages, and all the more useless when damaged. The memory was wiped.

Yet what had been the other options? Escape pods had been far, her previous ship looking too badly damaged from their rough crash through the failing shields, the others too far from her limited acquaintance with the flagships layout, too many soldiers that must crawl through these hall ways, panicking but still prepared to attack. Revan so limp against her. Explosions rocking the flagship, and Bastila had not even to sense for some sign of where to go. What _else_ could she have done but finally settled for this immediate escape?

From Revan, there was not movement, even as she checked their supplies again, did another inventory, checked the boxes again. There were basic medical supplies here, medpacs and sleeping pills and antibiotics. Bandages that would only cover the minor of wounds.

Black and violet almost sheer fabric. Up close it resembled the wings of some creature, a thing that lived in those caves of Dantooine with far too many legs and eyes. A hakama around his waist. Heavy gloves and gauntlets. So covered and hidden away. She wondered how many people had seen him like this, weakened and up close. Unmasked.

What was under that mask was the most mundane disappointment.

But when, then, had she been expecting, anyway?

Bastila looped back around, and this time, nudged him with her foot.

Nothing.

Not dead. Not even that badly hurt, not truly, not necessarily. That was why she had the neural collar, the cuffs that might stretch out his arms and left him as helpless as he might be capable. If it came to it, Bastila had the lightsaber she'd found on his belt. 'Who knew how many had been slayed by this thing,' she had pondered when grabbing it, and had nearly tossed it away. Better to have another weapon, after all. That final decision made while removing what she could of the outer armor and his mask, leaving an exoskeleton behind in order carry and conceal him with more ease.

Carried and half-dragged him here in a fit of pity and compassion, and now here he was. Possibly dying and there was nothing she could do for him right now.

Besides restraining him. Revan was tied him to the heavy bars attached to perhaps the very frame of the ship, impossible to pull out without the use of the Force. Long bars horizontally placed, so he could stand up when he awoke, if not sit entirely comfortable with his hands in his lap. In the center of the ship, no shadowy corner for him to hide weapon or pry anything apart. With that collar on, he would be unable to use the Force, and it would hopefully keep him befuddled enough to be handled.

It was the best she could do.

He still lived thanks to Bastila, but she doubted there would be many appreciative remarks for that. Anyone but a Jedi would have gladly left him behind. When they were discovered, she would almost certainly not be rewarded by the Republic for this act of mercy. Bastila had heard too many stories from those that had been wronged by this man. Gladly, most of the Republic would have been to hear of his death on that ship, grateful to her for making such a heavy blow against the Sith. Already, she was regarded with minor awe by soldiers for her Battle Meditation, well-respected by the people she served with, and to be the one that had fought and survived, no, _more_ , beat Revan…

Bastila stared at his unmoving form, breath coming faster.

Malak was the one to be congratulated on Revan's defeat, however. For even this opportunity, the betrayal. Thanks to the inevitable in-fighting of the Sith, the sneak attack had worked. If not for the other Sith, Bastila and her fellow Jedi could very well have all died there by Revan's hand—for all the skills that were shared among her and the others, this was _the Revanchist_.

Two wars and countless duels under his belt. He had been so un-intimidated by the onslaught of Jedi on his prized ship. Yet, in the end, the light had prevailed, albeit with some outside help; Revan had lost. Even the betrayal had been so perfect in its own way. Of course the Sith turned on one another, and the Force truly had worked out everything.

Bastila nearly smiled, nearly humbled.

Behind them, his flagship would be fully broken up by now. They were lucky to be here.

The damage to the fallen figure had not been too severe, even as blasts rocked the ship and lights blared and flickered inside and out. If she'd left him there he would have perished alongside everyone else on his flagship.

The biggest loss of the war for Revan. At her hands.

How little there was onboard this getaway craft. How little Bastila had with her. A small pouch on her side that contained a small datapad and nothing else useful.

This craft was meant to sneak away on. Something hidden up the sleeve for an emergency. Revan's? Almost certainly.

Bastila inspected the walls and seats again, just to make sure. Who knew what traps might exist? Booby-traps and poisons and bombs. Remember his ship, dying in blossoms of fire. Sloping black floors and everything had pointed gradually to the bridge, inevitability. That could have been the name of Darth Revan's ship even, ' _Inevitability'_ , and the Sith Lord nearly had the ego to name it that. The things they had found on his flagship, the machines that came from the shadows. Slaughtering Jedi as they went, the nameless things. Horrors of that place, so many dying around her, and she had been so close to forgetting herself in the black and red halls.

The others beside her all gone now. Older and stronger and much more powerful than her. Acquaintances, names she had heard only of, fellow Jedi helping the Republic in whatever way they could surrounding her to _keep her safe_. She mustn't be caught. If she was unable to escape, if she found herself about to be taken alive by the Sith—what Bastila had already been advised to do than risk being captured by the Sith Lord.

For what had they all died for?

He had turned his soldiers against the Republic. Tried to turn the Republic against the Jedi. Promised the Senate in a broadcast that quickly became public that he did not wish to harm their civilians, no, it was the Jedi Order that he and his many soldiers fought. Those that had sat on the sidelines and watched the Mandalorians rape and pillage their way through the Outer Rim, yes, them, if that group was turned over, well, there didn't need to be a war did there? A sibilant voice in a masked face that made such reassurance that none could believe.

There was only peace, knowledge, serenity, justice and the Force.

Yet Bastila's doubts began always to creep in.

What if he never awoke? Instead traveled further and further into the darkness?

With that collar on, he might be unable to communicate. Trapped inside his own body. She could feel the stupor of it, numbing, if she didn't concentrate on separating herself from him. A Bond, yes. That much Bastila did know.

Or what if he awoke, and almost _magically_ , was devoid of anything evil? Or of anything? Brain damage. He would open those eyes and return to being a young Jedi Knight, so eager to stop the war blazing along the Outer Rim. Amnesia. An indignant young man that would want to help her. 'We must stop those Mandalorians! What, try to hurt you, a fellow Jedi? Never.'

Younger than that. Emptied. 'What are Jedi?' And she would need to teach him anew everything and he would prove to be a decent student, and when they were saved, this new Revan would prove to be of great help to the Republic. All while the Sith disintegrated into civil war and Malak was defeated from the inside.

Bastila smiled, grimaced. She could always hope. If only briefly.

Brain damaged, and there would be nothing in that gaze. Glassy eyes staring to some middle distance. Trapped, enmeshed somewhere else; Bastila had seen head trauma before. Ruined and perished. All but dead meat lying there. She would bring back something useless and broken, just to prove a point. His face really was full of bruises, dried blood, veins, yellow-brown-red, and swollen. The faint impression of his mask still marked his face, here and there. Little x's of fresh red.

For this, so many Jedi had died.

Revan The Butcher.

An asset. With him, the war might be ended, and that was why those Jedi had died. For _him_. They had meant not to kill him if it could be avoided, but to capture and take back to the Council. She knew this, had been told the plan, the strategy, a hundred times. A falter in the security will happen at this time. Long enough to slip passed, especially with her gift. Divert attention and that was all, Padawan. Remain with your guard and do not hesitate to retreat if it looks like the battle is turning for the worst. You are the best hope the Republic has of defeated the Sith.

She was, and had done that—to a point.

Padawans should listen to the Masters, and she should had stayed back. Until another died around her, and she could sense Revan, a heavy pit, a black hole that pulled all Force users closer. A challenge and a call to all. Then she was hurrying on ahead, unheedful of the warnings of her guards. We must, we must. She would not fail. And hadn't. Entirely, anyway.

Bastila had captured him. Had saved him. She had thrown out a rope, and what was left of Revan had grabbed it.

But at what cost? Was it up to her to count the deaths that had been caused so recently, so many loyal Republic soldiers and good Jedi lost for his sake?

He might be just fine.

He might just be faking this to let her guard down. The moment she turned her back, he might strike.

There was dutifulness in him. Careful strikes and keen strikes to hamper the Republic, with no random smashing blows, but none of that meant he was not a monster. No one was finer on the battlefields, and Revan was infamous for the traps he laid.

Compassion should have been the reason why he, why _she_ , was here. There was some of that, but it was to the lesser degree. That had been what made her _first_ reach out for him, but not what made her grab him with such strength. Anchor him firmly to the living, share and tie herself to him, just to make sure that he would make it through this. The unintended consequences were still being sorted out, and right now, Bastila had nothing but time to study it.

Not entirely Jedi forgiveness, and that shamed her. A cold part had looked down at him lying there, helpless, and known it was the chance to, to…capture him and being him to the Council. With him, the war might be stopped if he could be convinced. All by _herself,_ for better or worse. Bastila could have fled and made it to one of the escape pods without him weighing her down, fought her way through any of the remaining soldiers, and safely be headed towards one of the Republic worlds. But Jedi do not run and leave the wounded for dead.

That cold part (what could be the dark side, couldn't it) that reassured her doubts as to helping Revan. Stop and turn him back to the light side. With his knowledge and power, the answers to the questions the Republic and the Order had, they could win this war he had started. There had been very little serenity in that moment, and no peace.

How much would no longer having Revan around slow the Sith? If only she had managed to stop Malak as well. The power vacuum would destroy the enemy. They would turn on each other without their leaders, eat each other alive.

She didn't know his real name. Had never seen him before this mission, and hadn't even been properly sure what gender 'The Revanchist' was. Still did not know what he sounded like without that mask and its voice modifier. Nothing but an ambiguous mystery, exactly as Revan wished to be.

Now she could see him. Even when she paced, when she closed her eyes, she had to see him. Skin stretched tight over high cheekbones, deeply set eyes, the spill of blood on unnaturally gray skin the only color, though now he had bruises to add some life to that face. Under half-closed eyelids, through dark lashes, his eyes had moved, unseeing, indistinct but too pale. Now at least his eyes were closed. He now had a smell as well, unhealthy battery-acid of a sick person, sweat and blood. It was the fact of a sick man, perhaps a Dark Jedi even, but not one of a Sith Lord that was slowly demolishing the structure of entire worlds and systems.

This time, Bastila nearly kicked him.

He surprised her again, Revan did. Made her gasp and all but throw her datapad aside, half-panicked, reaching for the lightsaber. A twitch. The left leg. Some reflex still worked.

Could he be faking? Hiding from her? With that neural collar on, snapped on with so much haste she had hardly been aware the physical contact, it was hard to tell. There was their connection, but Bastila didn't dare explore that.

It was possible he was suffering from damage more psychological in nature. Shock, long-term PTSD. This was a person that had fought in two wars. Though one of which was his own making, that didn't mean there couldn't be psychological trauma induced. If anyone was close to edging into insanity, why not him? Revan had been a Jedi, been raised learning the Code and taught compassion for all life, and what he'd seen must have made an impact. A part, if only in the beginning, must have been wounded at the loss of life. Could anyone do what he had done, and still be sane?

He had killed that Republic soldier whose name she would never learn without a second glance or hesitation. There was no doubt in her mind that he would have done the same to her. _Why_ had she saved him?

She might be able to break him from his previous path, no—fix him. Her datapad was here, and there was so much on it especially to deal with stress and fear. The dark side that such things led down. Bastila had dragged him here physically, so why not drag him back into the light, kicking and screaming. Bombard him, and reassure herself simultaneously of what she was doing. After facing him in combat, or nearly anyway, what was _talking_ with him?

Bastila was already preparing the files. She had not spent as much time in the library and archives as other Jedi, but that didn't mean she was unprepared to help Darth Revan.

Bastila would save him from himself.

From others too, who had been twisted and shaped by his hands. All the Jedi and soldiers that had been turned to the dark side on his orders. There had been talk of rebellions, even in the Republic they heard of them. The nature of Sith. Other Dark Jedi grasping for power and eager to devour their own and would not hesitate should the wrong person expose their throat for them. His apprentice, best friend it was said, (when both had been capable of such) had turned on him the very moment the opportunity presented itself.

The shields had gone down, and the Jedi had slipped in.

Malak had some hand in that, perhaps. Probably. An advantage. Revan was not so invincible after all. Brought down by the dark side and the light.

It had been the Force that led them both together.

Bastila finally found a bomb in an overhead compartment. Unset, thankfully—as far as she could tell. Backup, in case the ship drifted off course, or a secret weapon? Better, she told herself, to die here and take him with her than be found by the Sith forces that might take Revan back to the helm gladly. Those other Jedi and soldiers would not die for nothing.

Bastila watched and paced. Sleep was beyond her.

What might come awake?

Quietly, she explored the ship.

Clothes messily put away. Of a durable, dark cut and for a large man, larger than Revan. Who had been here last? The refresher was searched again, and grimly, she was glad for the niceties to be found. Soap and other such things, though no brush or comb. A bottle of champagne tucked away and a few scattered boxes of food. There were worse ways to spend one's last days. Yes, Darth Revan was there, but at least there was _floss_ —no, Bastila had to remain calm and accepting. Capture her fear and let it go. Lots of other Jedi had been stuck with a Sith Lord, and they had been the ones tied up, for a slower more painful death than this.

Sleeping and pain medication, if need be. Bastila would be grateful that she had been given her gift, had been trained by the Jedi and loved by her father so. Many beings in this galaxy had been given so much less. She had faced the Revanchist and survived, and had tried to spare him. At the least, Darth Revan would no longer be able to continue waging a war on the Republic.

She would meditate, facing Revan.

Perhaps she could reach him, even with the damage and the collar, through their Bond she supposed had been formed.

If given the chance, Revan would torture and maim her. As he'd done to his apprentice. No, worse. He would break and shatter her, for as long as he could. All the things she'd been warned of, Revan would gladly perform.

A pattern in the tatters of his cape and robe could almost be made out. If she studied it long enough, what would Bastila find written there.

Tired. Shock and the draining of her own energy to protect Revan. All that dragged at her.

Finally, Bastila reacquainted herself with the narrow bed.

She would sleep here.

One pillow and a thick blanket and a sheet under it.

She could sleep here.

Theoretically.

Relax and close her eyes. Breathe and feel limbs growing heavier.

Her dreams had been—what had Bastila dreamed of…what had she _dreamed_? Figures coming at her, hands ablaze and full of light. Raising a blade to the foremost figurant, armed with yellow. Herself? Had it been a dream? Darkness around whoever Bastila had been at that moment in that delusion. Shadows flickering and growing larger, twisting.

It had not been full of darkness and pain, however. Or rather, Bastila had not felt afraid as she'd stood there.

The shadows were comforting old friends that could be gently nudged to see what one wanted. The cold was a welcome respite to the heat under the mask. These before them ( _her, him_ ) so foolishly displaying their weapons, were nothing more than playthings. This was only a temporary game and soon they ( _him, her_ ) would be free of all distractions and have acquired another arsenal, another piece.

There had been a sickening triumphant taste in the mouth. A smug satisfaction not quite a joyous thrum in the heart, but a content hum. Pleased for the patience of those that had waited. Finally, it was happening, after all that time: s _he was here._

And Bastila _had been_.

But that had not been her own dream, if that's what such a thing could be called.

She stared at the motionless figure in the corner.

The trap had indeed worked rather well. Just as the Jedi had hoped. Almost too well. All had suspected another trap laid somewhere to snag and capture them. One did not take a Sith Lord lightly. Yet Revan was captured and would no longer harm the Republic or kill another soldier or siege another world.

Still, there would be no more sleep.

Using the Force to manipulate the durasteel around his wrists, she double-checked the restraints as best she could with the rest of her kept at safe distance. His hands remained unmoving and anonymous in gloves and charred gauntlets.

Limp, his head remained on his neck. Chin against his collarbone.

He might be dying.

Or he might be faking.

The lightsaber was cool in her hands, nearly plain workmanship. The blade felt wrong in her hand, too slim and light. It could have belonged to any Force user, but for that shiver through the Force that whispered of the taint inside and around it. It had been used to kill Republic soldiers and Jedi Knights and Masters. Bastila didn't dare turn it on.

What had led him to this path? The great Revanchist, so broken. A laughing stock of the Republic he would be if seen like this. Finally, he was revealed to be no machine from the dark gaps of the galaxy, but only a man that could be tied up after being carried through a ship as one might a child. Turned on by his oldest and best friend, Malak, who had followed him to madness and death and ruin. The betrayals Revan had done, only to turn his back both literally and metaphorically at the wrong moment and find his almost-death at the hands of his pupil.

Saved only by the aid of a Padawan! He would have died if Bastila had chosen otherwise. For even the Jedi to have turned their back on Revan would have meant there was nothing believed left to redeem. If she had not listened to that voice that whispered of mercy and continue to cradle his body and spirit, and just left him behind, his betrayal would have been complete. But from where did that betrayal begin? Before even the disagreement with the Order, the feigned offer to the Senate of peace in exchange for their armada and the Jedi and his declaration of war?

There were many Jedi that had come from dark places. Ones they could not speak about, even as they grew older. Some that could learn everything but forgiveness.

She herself remembering the first day and night at the Temple, weeping and cringing, certain that all the unnamable aliens spotted were monsters. A cringing small figure on her bed, half-sure that every shadow would swoop down and eat her. She had, after all, been naughty somehow, and Mother had sent her _away._

A new curious thought struck her: Did _Revan_ have his own parents, bittersweet memories? Where had he been born? Had there ever been someone to tuck him in and tell him bedtime stories? Years and years ago, even Revan had been small and helpless, as hard as that was to imagine.

The younger Republic ensigns had half-considered him a machine. Rumors about how he never slept, never ate, apparently just stalked about like a little debutant with his growing kingdom. Dressed in shadows and always masked, who knew _what_ was under there. Sacrificing Jedi and drinking blood while making pacts with other Sith Lords he'd learned from during that time away from all known space. In-between the debauchery and torture of anyone unlucky enough to fall into his hands. No Jedi that faced him ever survived, and even those that had brushed by his presence and the war were changed. The strange droids onboard his flagship…

All claptrap to scare the youngling with, Master Vrook had dismissed, days earlier before the Jedi strike team had left. There had been a human behind that mask, and one that had bled and been harmed. Revan was nothing but an arrogant newly anointed Jedi Knight that had decided not to listen to the Council. The Revanchist was only a—

— _Had he moved?_

Just then?

Nerves, Bastila dismissed. All in her head.

 _No_ , that left boot had moved. Definitely had moved. Again. She had to be strong. He would awake soon. Open eyes in that swollen face. As though she had summoned him back to life at this moment, Revan stirred. Alive, if not entirely robust as he had been once. Hopefully.

Bastila would be strong.

Awakening, finally. To her mixed relief. That movement might signify that he could be whole, or only slightly damaged. Perhaps he could help her. He might want to repent what he had done, and agree to return to the Temple on Coruscant, and he would show her how to get this ship working. Or there would be nothing in him but shivering movements of brain damage, something in-between comatose and catatonic.

There could be anything in that twitching body.

You could not afford to assume he could be trusted. Every word would be a lie, a feint, a warning and a danger. Bastila would have to protect against all of what he might say. Threats and promises and pleads. All of it would have to be ignored and herself kept safe and whole from this monster. A brief second, to inhale and remember the Code, remember her Master.

Then Revan the Butcher began to awake.

A swallow. Lips parting as best they could, scabbed and bruised and sealed with dried saliva. A hum and a very confused _huh._

For a moment, Bastila was unsure if this was truly Revan, if she had grabbed the wrong man, if the horrid figure on that ship had only been a feigned actor assigned for this very purpose.

But _his eyes._

Revan stared at her.

How he tried to form words, to put together the pieces of what had happened, and Bastila leaned forward. His tongue slipped out to taste the blood at the corner of his mouth, and there was a cough, a whisper. Finally, Revan began to speak: "Are you an angel?"

Then he smiled.

Bastila had never pictured him with such an expression, of being capable of making jokes when before the stories and speeches had been so self-righteous and serious. A person that had the weight of the galaxy pressed to his young, unafraid shoulders. A man making a joke. Blood had dried on his face, tacky and it would eventually flake off, to be peeled off by gloved fingers if his restraints were longer.

Then Revan noticed the state of his hands. So casually sucking in breath and staring back at her some more. The way he raised his eyebrows could make the small hairs on her nape stick up. "But this _is_ a familiar dream."

To her horror.

Then he stopped smiling, and it became _worse_.

"Malak."

"Yes."

Eyes alit with something terrible that burned yellow and red. " _You_."

"Me?"

Did he know who she was? It would be not a huge surprise to find out that Revan knew who she was exactly. That dream, or vision, seemed to indicate he had indeed wanted to capture her. More than a minor blip on his radar yet, even as he destroyed another system, destabilized another government. Revan seemed too meticulous to not know even the Republic's best weapon against him at the moment. Good, that he knew who had brought him down.

Chatting with a Sith Lord. That's what she was doing right now.

"The girl, ah, the _Padawan_. Something about felines? It's on the tip of my tongue." With a slow exaggeration, he licked his lips.

"Bastila Shan."

"Yes, I swear, normally I'm better with names. Once you were caught sneaking into the archive after you set some rare book on fire. Vrook made you scrub pots in the kitchen for a month."

Anew, Bastila remembered the strategies this man had used against his enemies, all his brilliance that had led to him being knighted so quickly. That he would remember such a thing… _numb_ , that's what she felt _._ Leaden. Aware of the skin and muscle on her face that faced the brunt of his stare. A Knight that had seemingly never been reprimanded a day in his life, from that tone. When all it had been was an accident involving a high-powered telescoping facing the wrong day under strong lights. The damage had been minor, truly. "Two weeks. And I did not sneak into the archives."

"You were a cute kid I bet. So… _angry_ even then."

Angry? Was that what he saw? A vengeful angry Jedi about to punish him? _Was_ she angry? Her hands were balled into fists, and there was always this fear beneath the current, but Bastila did not seek revenge.

"I was not."

"Your later Master, I remember, never quite got along with Kae." His voice dropped, plummeted, from overly-neighborly to hideous. "My _replacement_ is what you are."

Your captor.

Feeling came back to her fingertips eventually. "Everything is about you, isn't it?"

The Sith took notice fully of his collar, of his defenseless state. "Do you think this will stop me?"

His face was an awful, molted thing meant for sneers and disgust. "You're going to listen to me. You will release me. I will fix the ship. Perhaps I will not even kill you." Something cruel flashed across that face, as though Revan just couldn't hold back his own anger. The mask, the lack of a mask, exposed him again. No murder for her. No quick death. Bastila would be tortured, slowly. Until she longed for the chance of suicide. "You _will_ follow my orders. Now."

The Jedi Sentinel leaned back. "Are you done?"

"You have no idea what you've done, little Jedi," Revan hissed. "I have done more to save the galaxy than you ever shall accomplish. Your mind is incapable of understanding the full extent of the danger."

Bastila could almost understand the dark side a little better, after this. Perhaps her Master would have been proud. "I understood the danger just fine."

"You don't have to lie to me, little Jedi." Revan stared, so _knowingly_ even as he asked, "Where are we?"

She didn't know. Even now, she couldn't be certain. Not dead.

Revan could smell and feed off her unease. " _Where are we_? This isn't an escape pod. The freighter? This is not something for long travel." His voice grew hushed. Understanding sponged more color from his face. He looked nearly young. The Dark Jedi could not use the Force but Bastila had heard of his interrogations. It must be easy to read her face. " _What did you do_?"

"I saved us!"

"From what?"

"Your apprentice turned against you. You remembered that, didn't you?"

Did he?

When Revan sucked in air, it hollowed his cheeks. "Why didn't you just take an escape pod?"

"They were destroyed. The ship was in ruins. We hardly made it out alive."

"You're lying."

"No—"

"About something. Malak was a firm believer in overkill, but something went wrong."

"Nothing went—"

The entire mission had and hadn't been perfect. They had stopped Revan, but she was trapped in here too. A willing sacrifice though. The Republic would have to go on without her Battle Meditation. Bastila would accept death, had accepted it when she'd agreed to go on this mission and face this man. This was not quite what she'd imagined, but it was a victory.

"—Nothing went wrong!" she insisted.

Yet still they drifted, untethered and alone.

And everything must be there on her face.

"This ship cannot be capable of long travel… and why am I _here_? Why are we both here?"

"I tried to save you. To show you compassion, Revan. We were trying to capture, not kill you. And no, I didn't have time to check every ship that was left. The crew members were dead, as were the Jedi. This was the only one that could be found. The others were in even worst shape. We're lucky to have made it this far."

" _Where are we_." His teeth were bloody.

She had heard of him making speeches before, and had read the reports. Words, moving ones, even, about life in the Republic, about the Jedi Order, about why they had to fight, always fight _to be_ greater. Rousing grandiose words meant to inspire. But now, when she heard him use that gift to stir awake fear, Bastila understood a little easier how Revan had been able to turn others to the dark side. He was tied up, restrained, her life already knowingly forfeit, and yet Bastila felt a trickle of unease. Revan must have been very good at interrogations.

Still, Bastila would not lie. "I don't know."

"Are you on autopilot? No. No." He could hear the frightening _lack_ of noise. "This freighter is broken. Isn't it. So, yes, you saved us. From a quicker death. You don't even know how ignorant you are. Why I'm doing this. What is to come."

As though she needed her face rubbed in their predicament further. "Another cryptic statement will surely make things _clearer_."

"Did you never wonder why I turned against the Republic?'

"Self-aggrandizement. Revenge."

"Idiot child. I turned against them to reshape, not to break the galaxy. There was no ego in that."

Bastila made a sound of derision. His very title was one of vengeance.

"You would laugh? I have seen what the Outer Rim holds. The Republic will not be able to stand against it. It's too old, dying, scattered. That is why I formed the Empire of Sith."

"Wonder who was the cause of that? How convenient for there to be another enemy that only you and the Sith could defeat."

The smoothness of his unnaturally gray skin rippled when he was upset. " _Did the Council tell you about this_?"

Upset. Furious. An anger she felt rolling across the Force, even with his collar. Malcontent, oh yes.

Eyes of a lizard, a krayt dragon, a Lord of the Sith.

"No."

"They don't know." He stared up towards the ceiling, thinking aloud. "They did know, but they say I'm the cause of what they felt."

"What are you talking about?"

"There must be some way to get the attention of another ship. Sith or Republic. We still have one lightsaber. Between our Force abilities, we should be able to handle most of what comes this way."

She was on her feet, too close to him. " _Excuse_ me? You think I'm going to help you murder anyone else?"

In the flat planes of his face, she saw her own disbelief. "You think this is about _teams_? No, this is about survival."

"I know that you cannot be let go."

With a strained, fraying patience, Revan licked his lips. "We'll die here. Worse, both our _sides_ will lose. Does that get through to you? Destroyed by something you cannot imagine."

"Better that we die here together, than let you go on. I swore, _swore_ , that I would stop you."

"You would…you're expecting to die."

"I'm always willing to die."

"Frack, but you are a Jedi. You." He laughed, as though helpless not to. "You have no idea what you've done, and yet you're so proud. A minor setback. That's all this is. I have faced so much worse than you and survived, Padawan."

"I won't let you."

"Will you murder me? No? Because I'm your prisoner. But isn't there some Code that prevents you from torture your prisoners?"

"As though you would know."

"But you're not me, are you? No, better to slowly perish here." Another laugh, unhinged, unsteady. "We will die floating in the middle of nowhere, and you're _okay_ with that."

A dry-heave made his entire body clench through the remains of his clothes, scattered armor, and she nearly touched him. He was no longer standing, as high as he could, but stooped from the pain. Anguish, he was capable of that? "I _failed_. Force. I never saw this coming. The _Force."_

When he opened his eyes, Revan wasn't that slight man only a few inches taller than herself, narrow shouldered and light enough for her to drag quite a ways.

She remembered anew the warnings the other older Jedi had given her before this mission.

Malak had been a great swordsman. One of the best of their Order, he'd only gotten better with time and the years spent on the battlefield. It was said that his time in the hands of Mandalorians had left him with no fear of pain but lots of experiences inflecting it. Few physical weaknesses, a firm grasp on the Force, a long reach with his single right-handed blade. A bad man to be cornered by.

And he'd never won against Revan.

Lips peeling back from his teeth. His teeth ( _what he could do with those teeth_ ) exposed and dangerous, Bastila had never feared being bitten by a human before. But Revan wasn't human, not exactly. She had seen marks of the dark side, from fighting Dark Jedi, but never so much of it. More than something as simple as one's complexion, or even the faded irises, but actual possession.

As he never had before, Revan appeared mad. Livid. Insane. He snarled.

He would—what could he do?

There was fear here, inside herself, to be taken and banished from her mind. Nothing but a whiff of pollen to be plucked and set loose.

A ball of ripped fabric, from his robes, was taken and snatched up. It wasn't hard to reach out and yank open his mouth further. Despite his physical strength, he could never be more powerful than the Force. Insert the ball. Five seconds.

She had just gagged Revan.

Tied and gagged the Sith Lord.

Then just use the Force to hold it in place so he couldn't spit it out.

"If you act like an animal, then I will treat you as one."

His eyes held murder in them. Every line on his face promised a certain special retribution for every second of this indignity. The veins that bulged and throbbing a blue under the delicate thin skin. When Revan became mad, his face went flat and pale, but when he was truly _enraged_ , his ears turned red.

She would _not_ be afraid. Of their situation, of the blackness to his pupils that sucked you in, of him and the power he still did possess. This was Darth Revan, but Bastila would not be frightened.

"Go ahead. Continue having your tantrum, Revan. See how far it gets either of us."

She remembered her own Master, dead now due to this war, years ago assigned to help Bastila hone her newly discovered talent at Battle Meditation. Her only talent, she was so told, everything else fell short of this gift. _Mediocre_ …Bastila's Master would have explained the situation patiently to her student and helped them get to a common goal. Facts and hard discipline and commands to control themselves. Failing that, would sent Revan to his room without dinner. Or to the corner to pout after another long speech listing all of the man's flaws and where he'd gone wrong exactly.

This was as close to that as Bastila could go to silencing him so he might listen.

His hostility would never end, go fully into retreat, but it _simmered_ now. Perhaps he could not feel the Force, but that didn't seem to matter on her end. The brunette could feel him digging into himself, questioning the past few hours, wondering how he'd been captured and led here by _her._ Looking inside for answer, just as a Sith might do, rather than trust the Force.

She did pull the gag out however. What if he grew sick again, more powerfully, and choked? They might die here but Revan would not perish due to her negligence.

He did not thank her. Eyes closed, unhealthy pallor to his skin, even for someone so deeply possessed by the dark side. "Jedi sneaking onboard. I thought perhaps someone was making a move against me, but it seemed too soon. The Republic hadn't yet fallen." Revan licked his lips. "Surprising the Jedi were willing to send you, their last fleeting hope, to come get me."

"I volunteered."

"Interesting." He swallowed, slowly. "Curious? That's good. The worst type of Jedi are not. That closes their eyes and turns away from the truth. Will you let me out?"

"No."

His face was blank, but she could see the poison in his eyes. "You won't."

"To all of what you claim."

A pull at his constraint was another confirmation.

No, she would not let him out or help him escape in any way. No pity or fear. There was no escape from this.

Revan then seemed to understand and fully appreciate their situation.

He didn't seem to care then, about talking to her, about the blood on his wrists and his own physical pain. A wild animal with its paw caught in a trap. He wasn't Darth Revan now, not without his power, this was nothing but the raging of a man not much larger than herself. One unafraid to hurt himself, even bashing the back of his head repeatedly, yanking at the heavy bars keeping him in place.

She had to use the Force to stop him, though didn't even try inserting the balled fabric in his mouth.

Slowly, it burned out.

All the life had burned out of him.

Blank-eyed as a doll. Catatonic, and Bastila feared he really had done severe brain damage to himself.

How long did they look at each other, then?

They could survive for perhaps another month. Perhaps two, using the Force and stretching out their supplies.

Two starved miserable months.

Then he stared at her, focused and aware. The bloodshot eyes yellow poison.

"I'm going to kill you, Jedi," he promised, sincere and flat. "I will make you rue the day you even joined the Order. No one will hear your screams but me, and I will _savor_ them."

" _Not if I_ —" No, she mustn't, she couldn't lose her temper. Not here, not with him. Bastila would not give him the pleasure of seeing her fall to the dark side. Her last act would be of the light, of goodness, not losing herself in a mad rage and harming the man she had done so much to protect.

But there was the beat of an increased pulse in her veins, and it hung in the air, soiled the oxygen. Something sour in the mouth, familiar, _excitement_ and eagerness for this confrontation. Just as she had moved ahead, ignoring the warnings from her guards as more Jedi died around them, fear heavy on her tongue as she ordered them forward because all of this _couldn't_ be for nothing. And so glad every second to still be alive, and sure that every step brought them closer to Revan. They could stop him, they _must_ stop him.

His own livid face reptilian, watchful.

Perhaps they did have a Bond, and one that might affect her. She could feel him, muffled and distant. A person in a room far away, but still with only a wall separating them

At least they hadn't killed each other. Yet.

The _bogan_ had held Revan in its grip for far too long. Once there had been a Jedi Knight, slight and brilliant, always with his best friend and with so many admirers. Everyone had respected and trusted him. For those six months he and the third of the Republic military forces he'd taken with him had disappeared, the entire galaxy had mourned and feared for their loss. He could have been the Grand Master of the Jedi Order, and only enriched their Order with his gifts. Taken and trained many Jedi to Knighthood. This was what he'd become.

Such a _waste._

"Get that look off your face. You have no idea what you've done, and yet you look at me as though I were the one to have damned the galaxy to a slow death."

"You will not fool me. I could turn that device on your neck up higher, Revan," she reminded him. Turn him into a drooling invalid, wipe him clean of any intention, good or bad. Finish the job Malak had started.

Sometimes, Bastila felt the headache that wasn't caused solely from her own stress.

"Try it. Just try it." His grin was nothing sane.

They watched each other for an untold time, long enough for her eyes to grow dry and her joints to stiffen.

Until she decided to sit at the small table with its hard chairs, and watch him there.

The Order had hoped he could be spared. Life was never to be wasted. For interrogation. Perhaps they could have gotten the answers they sought, if things had gone according to place. The Masters would have known how to gently steer the conversation, how to use the Force to convince him to talk, how to speak to Revan without angering him and would have known how to calm him and get exactly what they wanted.

She could just see herself demanding answers from him. 'Right now, Revan, reveal all the secrets of your Empire that so far none of us have been able to discover! Right now…please?'

No, she would not get any truths from him. And no, Bastila would not beg him.

There had been too many interrogations and torture from him. Revan knew all the tricks, and had never been afraid of pain. In single-combat he had faced the finest warriors from so many systems, and had never lost. How could she wear him down to the point where he'd betray his own Empire?

He was not a man that dealt in half measures. Only gave exactly what he promised. All under the guise of fairness and justice. Revan had always made a show of offering an open hand to the Jedi, should they want to join him, and Bastila would do the same. "You are being given a second chance, Revan."

"Are you asking for me to cry and beg forgiveness for all my various failings?"

"Only you can find your own absolution."

"Then why drag me before the Council? Forever their loyal kath hound. Is that the way of it? You have no real thought process in that head, do you?"

"Of course I do." But the words were for herself, to stall while she wondered how to ask about the strange droids onboard his ship.

"If you did, you would have let me die there. But even then, you were trying to be the good little apprentice."

Just looking at him sneering made her nauseous. "I am a _Padawan_."

"A _Padawan_. I can't believe—you should have let me die on my ship. Force. And you _applaud_ yourself for sparing me. How did you even do that?"

"You were hurt. Not too badly, but that hit on the head…"

His form so limp in her arms. But here he was, still talking and able to follow a conversation.

"And?"

"I used a medkit," she said, finally.

"Yes. And what else?"

Could he feel it, even without the Force?

"The Force, obviously. There was brain damage, that's also obvious—"

His voice cut through the air. "Yes, yes, some showing of supposed Jedi wit. I want details as to what happened."

Bastila kept silent. Bad enough to think that a certain connection _might_ have been formed. Soldered and buried where neither could see it. Could he feel it, even with that collar?

"Now you have nothing to say? Don't you _ignore me_."

She discovered, realized, something wonderful with that statement, that refute against this entire situation. It wasn't wise to anger him, no, but there was nothing that he could do. And so what if he did become upset? What were the odds that either would survive another, say, month? Bastila could ignore him. Could get up, and use a tea bag found in one drawer warmed on the tiny over with minimum heat and half a cup of water.

"Where are you going?"

Go about moving and just avoiding bloodshot eyes. Ignore his straining arms with the veins so raised and the muscles twitching in his legs. He could not even kick her, if Bastila was careful.

She held up the fragrant bag. Something half-familiar to her nose. "Would you like some?" The brown-haired Jedi even sounded self-assured.

His nostrils flared, but eventually he nodded. As though it physically pained him, but at least it was a start at conversation. Perhaps with his help, they could find a way out of this mess. If this had been his private ship, there would have been failsafe's and security measures for this very incident, but perhaps Revan had some trick to communicate. Hail the Republic and return to the Order with him in chains. For now, Bastila would be grateful for this second of peace.

Making tea for a Sith Lord. They would talk more of this situation and the trap they were in. Later, she would meditate with her back to him, and then sleep with that bed across from him in this narrow freighter. Until they were found by the Republic cruisers that should be in this area. There was a single filament of a fact floating to the front of her mind: she didn't want to be connected to this man in any way, not physically or through the Force.

Revan grimaced at the taste, but did not attempt biting her or spitting at her or kicking. "No sugar?"

"No."

His exhale made her tense, feeling his breathe on her face. "Now will you tell me what happened? If I act like a good calm little Jedi?"

"I used the Force to heal you, as I said."

"Why do you avoid eye contact with me when you say that?"

Bastila saw the streaks of amber, old bruises, the sun of Dantooine that made up his gaze. How could anyone do that to themselves to such a degree?

"After I saved you…we seem to have formed a Force Bond."

Revan didn't need any more clarification. " _Joined_. Is there anything you don't screw up?"

Better, that he disliked her. Being respected, admired, by a Sith Lord had to be a bad thing. Bastila might come to savor his insults.

Once, years ago, like so many other Padawans, she might have wanted to have this man's respect. More than a strong fighter that wanted to help others, he was an intelligent person that could hold his own in any argument, a man that stood up and proclaimed that they must fight—how many were not moved, if reluctantly, when he spoke? It had seemed in that long ago time, all the Padawans wanted to join him, to be trained by him, to simply bask in the almighty presence that was Revan, covered always and so mysterious. That was a group that must have included her, hadn't it?

"Will you kill me?"

She sipped her tea. Tart. It did need sugar. "Jedi don't kill prisoners."

A crooked grin spread across his face. The skin beneath his nose was too pale, soft, almost limp. Did facial hair still grow there? Limp dark hair, feral and rough sprouted from his head. Features grown less sharp, flattened. What had he done to himself, and his apprentice to himself, to each other? Once, younger Padawans had looked over their shoulders to make sure no Master was around, then had argued over who was better looking, what they supposed Revan looked like, or Malak. Bastila, newly apprenticed, very conscious of her own responsibility, had always made a point to huff and roll her eyes if she was nearby to hear such dreck. Only a few years older than her, and already swept up in the excitement, Revan had become suddenly a figure all noticed.

She hadn't met him before, _ever_ , as far as she could recall. Before he was even The Revanchist and had only been a gifted Padawan.

That entire period was remembered as being a long time of discomfort and alertness. The war beginning to rage, the recent attack of the Enclave and herself so newly aware of her sprouting height and legs grown so clumsy. Excitement in the air as it seemed as though anything could and would happen any second.

There might be a dimple set in his chin, Bastila saw, all but shuddering. "I won't tell."

"I spared you so you might have a chance at redeeming yourself."

"You don't believe that."

"If someone wants to change—"

"I'll stop you there; I don't." Revan was disgusted. "Don't look to me for gratitude for taking your mission so overenthusiastically. You won't get your pat on the head from me, child. What will they do to me?"

_Child?_

"I can't say."

"I will break out of any prison. Stop making that face. Humility is the mark of a true Jedi, is it not? You shouldn't bristle so." Revan had kept the same level voice throughout the entire conversation.

"I did not 'bristle.'"

"Like a kath hound in the rain. Why should you care that I fail to pretend you're old enough to know what you might be doing?"

Great Jedi before her had brought others back to the light. It could be done, theoretically. Talented, better, stronger Masters had done that, however. Bastila was not even yet even a Knight…Still. _Still,_ if she had managed to find the compassion not to leave Revan to his dying ship, Bastila could try to offer him a choice. "This might be your last chance."

"Yours as well. How many regrets might you have, Bastila?"

"Not as many as you should, Butcher."

"What a nice title. Say, _Bastila?"_

She mourned the sound of her name; he had turned it into an insult and a warning. "Yes?"

"I think I found a fatal flaw in her diabolical plan to convert me to the light side?"

She all but slumped forward. How many hours had it been? A day? "What's that?'

"I have to pee."

"Wha—"

Oh. Krif. That…had not fully occurred to her. She could not let him out. But couldn't just let him stay trapped like that. Gods, how long would they be like this? How much food and oxygen and water did they have? Even using the Force to sustain herself, there would be a limit. Revan couldn't even do that.

Blazes, she—what could she do?

The price of her dignity was worth more than his life.

"What about showers?"

"There's a small sonic one in the back. In the refresher."

"…May I use it?"

"No. I'm not letting you out."

Muscles in his face rippled with fury held in the checked restraint. "We seem to be at a standstill here. And I still have to urinate. Do I get a bucket at least? And what of food? You may be able to use the Force to slow your metabolism, but I cannot. In case you haven't notice, I seem to have a collar around my neck that prevents that.

More questions were coming to him that she didn't want to answer.

"How much supplies do you even have? Water?"

"Three, maybe four weeks. If I use the Force to sustain me, perhaps two months of supplies?" A dizzying, horrifying prospect that Bastila would not allow herself to think about. How many hours, how many minutes…? No, enough.

"And me?"

"I won't let you starve."

"That's a death I never would have suspected. All these battles." Revan was looking around, closely. "Did you _clean_?"

"I dusted."

His expression could not be stood any longer. Bastila left him, briefly. There was a handy solution in the refresher. Thank the Force.

She kicked a bucket at him.

He gave her a look of pure disdain. Not even her Master had been capable of looking at Bastila like that. "And how am I supposed to use that?"

Revan could only move his arms so much.

Oh. Oh no.

"What _are_ you going to do?" He nearly smirked. Until he understood. "You could make this easier on us both and just loosen my hands."

She approached him, and tried to watch all of him. He would bite, claw, spit. There was no one here to pull him back, to save her from his madness. Revan watched, those eyes so sly and knowing. Standing up, next to him, the height difference was surprisingly slight. They had all thought it was just Malak's towering form that made the other Knight appear so slim and average.

"This armor is _ridiculous_." How do I even remove it…?

That was a dangerous, awful question and yet one that had to be asked.

This was just one of those things Bastila would gloss over if they were saved.

Complicated claps hidden away in the dark billowing folds of her robes. What was this loop in the front? Why was there so much fabric? What service did this serve and how did he not trip over it? How did he even get this on in the first place? His main breastplate had been removed by her earlier, in a fit of paranoia in case they did find another person in this ship as it fell apart. Oh, _krif_ , wrong clasp. His bellybutton like a bullet wound. Old scars and torn tissue knitted crudely together. He had fought and not seen enough kolto. Did that mean the Sith were running low on it? They looked old, his wounds. Overlaying those were new bruises and cuts. His armor had cut into himself when he'd fallen.

Ah, at least he was wearing pants under here. One mystery was solved. Should she live through this, she could inform the giggling Padawans of this fact. The hard pelvis cold even through the fabric. Find the folds here. _"Black_ underwear?"

Tight and that absurd of-course color. Of course he wore that.

The Padawan laughed too hard.

"Here's a tip, Padawan. Should you ever find yourself with someone dumb enough to agree to let you touch them, perhaps you shouldn't laugh at them." He kept his voice casual. A man that would ask what time it was. A _man_.

"What are you talking about?"

"Do you not know? Truly? Surely you can't be so naïve. Haven't you spent time in the Republic military?"

"What does that have to do with anything?"

Confusion was a tactic Sith were familiar with. It was best to ignore Revan while he rambled.

He watched her all the while she slipped into the role of a nurse, practically and flatly denying the full extent of this moment. It was nothing more than having to drag him here and apply bandages and change fluids.

Bastila didn't even shudder too much. Or vomit. It was all a medical procedure. This was what came from exploring the dark side. A reminder that he was human and needed help as anyone else would in a familiar situation. Thus far, Revan was being treated with far more decency than he'd ever shown the Jedi that had fallen into his hands.

Bastila could live past helping Revan this way. This was nothing, truly.

At least Revan didn't bite her.

She still had a weapon. Comforting to have nearby, despite knowing what it had been used for. At least it worked, and if necessary, Bastila _would_ use it. Revan, killed by his own weapon after having been betrayed by his apprentice had a grisly justice to it.

Her stare towards it lingered too long.

"Is that my lightsaber?" Revan asked.

"…yes."

"Where is yours?" He stared at her belt. "Dare I even ask what happened to your own?"

She had put it down for just one second. To remove his mask and see if Revan was ( _a machine a woman a man_ ) still alive. Then Bastila had gathered the unmoving but breathing figure closer to drag back to an escape pod, and had simply forgotten about her weapon. An idiotic mistake to be sure, but at the time, it hadn't been the largest priority—considering she was aboard a wounded ship that was being fired upon.

But Revan would accept no such details that might take away from insulting her.

He sounded like her Master. "You are a brainless twit. And I thought those interview were just misleading."

Such an ungrateful, awful man—

 _Interviews?_ Krif, he had seen _those_?

A flood of heat finally filled her face; Bastila remembered the reporters. All the cameras pushed before her, to be aired on the Holonet with only a cowl pulled down low to hide her face. Badgering from the press that wanted to know all about the Republic's newest weapon, would she truly be able to stop the Sith, could she save the Republic, was she was good as Revan, as Sunrider? Feeling again her age before those bright, hungry eyes with their constant questions. What was her next move against the Sith Empire? Did she know of their latest battle plans? The things she could not give an answer to, and only stammer—especially when the questions turned far too personal.

Bastila did not grimace. "You watched those?"

"Of course I did." Revan was annoyed. "After all the comparisons I suffered through?"

How could he ever use that word? "That _you_ suffered through?"

"The next in line. All the hopes of the Republic. The chosen one of some stripe. Surely you heard the same things."

Bastila did remember the comparisons. To Sunrider and with Revan and Malak. All great Jedi, but two of them brought so low with their arrogance. She must not forgot the lessons of such examples. Never lose her way as those two had, control her temper, recall the Code and recite it again. If only she could be as good as the lauded Jedi of the past, such as the woman that had shared her gift. She wouldn't be, especially now, but perhaps Bastila could _try_ for the same courage.

Not everything would failed. Not if Bastila had her way. She pulled her hair back tighter, ignoring his smirk, and found her true weapon. A glow with knowledge and offering comfort.

"I haven't failed. My mission was to capture and return your back to the Council so you could change your evil ways."

"That is not going to happen," the Sith Lord informed her.

Her eyes dropped down to the screen. "We'll see."

Bastila began with the Scroll of Discipline. Ancient before even the Enclave had been settled, passed down from generation to generation of Jedi. It was not her favorite text, but certainly full of things that pertained to the situation she was in. A small bar in the corner of her holopad detailed how many pages it had, how many pages they had to go.

Revan sneered at her.

Then another hour passed.

Gradually, he stopped making that face and found a new expression. "You truly intend to read that entire thing aloud, don't you?"

Bastila nearly smiled, and flipped to the next page.

He leaned back, and both remembered his recent defeat, his most recent defeat. "Perhaps your voice will give out."

Another hour drifted along, and her voice did not give out.

Revan truly was an arrogant child, for all the years spent as a Knight. Perhaps the time as a would-be despot had spoiled him. He was used to others following orders and doing all he commanded. Well, Bastila would make sure to correct that bad habit of his right away.

No, Revan, no matter how you beg, I will not 'shut up.'

For the first time, seeing his grimace and how he yelled, Bastila felt that she must be doing something after all.

All the answers were to be found here, and she would give them all to Revan, shove them right down his throat if need be.

No matter how much he resented being told of what he'd once known and forgotten through his time spent fighting the Mandalorians and plotting against the Republic for whatever maniacal reason. It was what must be done. There was no chance, only the Force, and it led them to this. This was another test to be taken and the most important one of all.

Bastila _would_ turn him to the light side. No matter how often he made that face and pondered aloud the mortal danger of swallowing one's own tongue.

"I did inform you before that you couldn't win."

Revan, it turned out, also did not appreciate more recent reminders of his folly.

When she tried to question him about the war and the Sith Empire's resources, he ignored her or offered only cryptic answers: "It will take more than your clumsy groping to get me to spill all my secrets."

He in turn dismissed all attempts at giving up his empty title, leaving her further disgusted: "No, I will not address you as 'Master'."

When she gave him water and food, he grimaced and pulled away from even that. Up close, the Sith looked worse somehow. All bruises and dark veins under skin turned sallow. "What if I refuse to eat?"

Sly.

While Bastila was feeling her own hunger and exhaustion. As he'd mentioned before, her throat _was_ beginning to ache. Two long months, perhaps, of this. "Starve then. I can't force you to eat."

"You do care though."

There, there was the weapon. He would do the proper Jedi act, and hold only the person he had any right to hostage: himself.

"Will you force me to feed you?"

He tugged at his restraints. "You've given _yourself_ very few choices in that matter."

"Fine." If he wanted to be obstinate, then Bastila would feed him like an infant. _Fine_ then. It wasn't her place to say what he deserved, but if it was punishment that he wanted, then she would assign some. Let him be treated like a child and 'suffer' through another hour of lectures through one particularly masochistic brand of learning: a haranguing chapter on the dangers of the ego from a force user of some minor renown from Celegia. Even she felt weary, reciting such berating.

He, at least, still did not bite her.

After, after she could say that she'd had enough. "I am going to rest now."

Eventually, she settled on the bed and refused to give Revan any pleasure in seeing her discomfort.

"You're going to sleep like that? Not even loosen those braids? They look uncomfortable."

She huffed and rolled over, and resisted the urge to pull the blanket over her head.

Still, she could feel his stare. Hear his breathing. The implied familiarity that came with such sound only further bothered her.

The first true night with the implications of sleep. How had she managed through the first night? A lurking horror right there. Lights never dimmed. Close her eyes briefly. Meditation and the Force and its calm sweat peace served, but only for now. Only for so long. All her senses were needed.

He never closed his eyes, it seemed.

Though he did cough, slow at first, then increasingly ragged.

Bastila wanted to hide her head under the pillow. It drove her to all but asking if he were alright. But that might all but a lie, a feint to get her to let him out of the restraints. Instead, the Jedi would focus on her breathing, inhale and exhale, the weight of her chest and every pull of her lungs expanding. Stretch out through the Force and feel the peace of it, the connection with it that explained her own gift with Battle Meditation.

Somewhere, perhaps nearby, the Republic might be leading a new assault on the Sith. They would be thrown off by the change in leadership, it had been surmised. Darth Malak would continue on, but how many worlds had agreed to the Sith's demands solely because of loyalty to Revan? Did Malak control the Sith fleets and reign as the Sith Lord? Would the Republic finally have an edge on them, without Revan at the helm?

Did the Masters wonder where she was? Was she already considered dead, or captured? Did anyone mourn her, or would the Republic be able to win without her Battle Meditation?

Was he still awake? Could one cough in their sleep? Was Revan sitting there as comfortable as he could get, just watching her? Watching her for what? Could he see her? See her discomfort?

Bastila felt a fool for asking aloud, "Are you asleep?" She swallowed. " _Reva_ n?"

"Shut. Up." Then he coughed.

She was able to settle down.

He would be fine. It might all be a ply, and more the fool she was for even letting Revan rattle her. He was the Dark Lord of the Sith, and as such couldn't be effected by head wounds or—the dark side? Perhaps it needed to go through his system like a virus, and that was all. In the morning, Revan would be his usual terrible, demanding and opinionated self.

When she awoken, Revan the Butcher was still tied up and collared, but there was something wrong all the same.

Through the dim trickle of their hypothetical 'Bond,' Bastila noticed his retreat. A lack. The power dimmed.

"Revan?"

"What?"

He was staring at her, and Bastila finally looked back. "You don't look so good, Revan."

"Neither do you."

Her hair felt a mess, and she adjusted the braids as best she could with her fingers. She could feel his gaze on her, and ignored it. Any moment, Revan would have some smarting comment about her appearance. "Is that why you were watching me?"

His face was one for sneers. "I was not 'watching' you. I'm amazed there's even this much oxygen left considering how much of your ego can fill a room…"

Since when did Revan deny his efforts in making her uncomfortable? Why would he after threatening such torture yesterday? "You _were._ Don't lie to me."

"You're not worth that much effort. To lie to or to check over. Believe me."

Bastila looked at him, perfectly blank until he found a new topic.

"What will you do today? More meditation and reciting the Code? Will there be more lectures? How exciting." Then he began to cough again.

The oddest leaps, some intuitive, others just a mark of his paranoia. Lapses in though, disjointed conversations that led nowhere. He did like to talk. Chatty. Even as his breathe caught in his throat.

"Do you never shut up?"

"Which one of us has spoken more, I wonder?"

"For your own—"

"Is it for me, or to reassure yourself, Shan?"

This too: they both hated to be interrupted.

So they cut in on the other's remarks and conversations, constantly. Stomped and fought each other, as important a fight as any she might have put in on the battlefield. Every parry and stroke met with a counterstrike and a flurry to beat the other back. Bloodless but painful. Language was life to all species, Bastila had read, been taught through cultural studies. All creatures must find a way to communicate with one another. Only the dead had no more to say, supposedly. Thus, it was followed that this arguing was their lifeblood. Proof they were still alive.

That might be comforting.

Eventually, hearing his voice might be _comforting_.

Revan might need her too. This failed messiah, could he stand to die in silence. His voice must be heard, by someone. Anyone.

Listen to me—

Oh, _shut up._

On the third day, he wouldn't move. Or fight. Or argue or insult her or try to convince her to let him go. Rather, he would prefer to just pretend all was lost, he was dead and so was she, so why speak? Why pretend and scratch out another day? Or he was lulling her into a false sense of security.

"I won't just let you die. Not after I dragged you from that ship."

"I don't want to talk to you." His head hung. "I can't anymore. Untie or kill me, but don't draw this out. I ask on your honor as a Jedi."

"You depend on the 'honor of a Jedi'?"

"Yes, it is cruelly ironic." Revan hardly seemed to see her. "Why don't you? Just kill me and be done with this? Jedi: perform justice."

"That would be only murder."

"Vengeance then. I have lived by that particular sword for so long its only fitting to be killed by it. I have surely hurt you. Your entire life has been in service to defeating me."

"I am a Jedi. My entire life will be in service to the Republic."

"To the countless dead I have left behind then. Why should I not join them?"

"Let the dead avenge themselves. There has been enough bloodshed."

His eyes were wide, jaw less tense. "You really do mean to draw this out, don't you?"

Bastila watched him shivering.

This was not her first time out of the Temple, for all his comments. There had been diplomatic assignments and various training tasks. Duties that came with her gift. But this was her first true mission, alone and without anyone else. She had medical training and knew how to navigate and could pilot a starfighter. But this might be her final test, and one that was to be failed.

Later, Bastila would assume that Revan had been closer to exhaustion than he would admit, before she'd even captured him. He had been running on fumes augmented by the Force and held up only through sheer, stubborn will.

With that…

Revan only turned his head, when he did response to her questions at all. He brooded and mumbled nonsense. He referred to her as 'Devourer.' He dozed, then reawakened to blurrily take water but no food. Sweaty curls stuck to his forehead and his color was high, beneath the marks of the fight and the dark side. Marks of his doing, and from his apprentice.

Without his own defenses raised, their connection had never felt stronger, so much more definite. Before, Bastila had wondered what went behind that face, what it must be like to be trapped in one's choices, in literal and metaphoric chains, and now she nearly knew. His thoughts rose to the surface, slow and stupid. She felt the ache in his joints, his gums, the stifling anger and rage over physical pain could turn his brains as useful as jelly.

Rarely had Bastila seen a drug addict, even on Coruscant. Yet she knew the comparison was apt. The drunkard, yes, on worlds during her time in the Republic, on Dantooine even when she left the Conclave. Shaking and dripping sweat that pooled, dark circles under the unsteady eyes. Sober-dry of the Force. Concussion, blood clots, and aneurisms were all words renewed in Bastila's vocabulary, and she tried to keep him talking then and awake.

"I won't let you out, no matter what. So if you are faking, you had better stop it. Or I'll—stop feeding you. Since a sick man obviously can't keep food down."

Nothing.

"Revan?" She drew on the Force to avoid resting herself. "Tell me about how much you despise the Jedi Code."

Time narrowed down to minutes, to his low coughs and tedium. For the first time, truly, she feared for his life.

A voice whispered, a cowardly voice piped up with optimism: 'maybe he'll get better!' But another one, heavier and smarter, quickly spoke over it, 'Or he'll be dead in two days, and you'll be left with a corpse.'

No. No.

She would not allow that.

All the more she would talk to him, poke at him, downright (yes, _now_ she was) harassing him and trying to pry out information. The older voice in her head told her to get as much information as she could, in case he did expire out here with such limited medical facilities. Bastila all but slapped him, and then would watch immediately back away, guilty. No matter if it was a game or not (and it wasn't, no, maybe it was), seemed to not matter at this point. She was helpless. And Revan was uncooperative, all around.

Bastila even tried to smile at him.

Sick, damaged. Something had lapsed in him, and his face was feverish. The softened waxy skin blistered and cracking. When he spoke now, he mumbled of holocrons and Korriban, his Master Kae, of things 'written in blood' and dead apprentices and the Cathar, of someone named 'Squint.' His memories would shiver and distort, and Revan would think she was someone else. Sometimes, he would switch to other tongues, even Mandalorian. There would be orders and threats, pleading; all responses ignored.

Revan told her of what had happened to Serroco and Jebble and Taris. Revan told her of what he had done to the _Testament,_ Foerost,and that there was no victory in destroying a surrendered enemy _._ ' _They didn't have enough faith in me_.'

Bastila heard every word and syllable.

When his nose bled, she wiped it. When he shivered, she took the blanket from the bed and covered him. When a fever ran through him, Bastila used a damp rag to wipe his face. When he coughed up watery blood, she cleaned it up.

In this moment, the Jedi sentinel could nearly forgive him. This was the punishment; he might face the vengeance the galaxy wished on him after all. There was nothing strong and noble and deserving of fear here. Only a sick man that might be spending the last moments of life in delirium with a woman whose name he could no longer recall.

Somehow, not despite of, but _because_ of this sickened body, Revan resembled again the young Knight that had gone out to save the Republic from the invaders. He had wanted once to protect, and in those mumbled arguments, Bastila heard of once noble goals gone sour and rotten in the war. From the mouth so blistered and lips so cracked, she heard him speak to dead friends he had betrayed or seen murdered or had turned on him.

Once, he had been capable of so _much._

Revan was a good example of how far one could fall. There was always another lesson to be taught, Bastila had been told, no matter where one was. She gave him water slowly so as to not choke him, and asked him more about the war.

He would die soon, she knew. Very soon. She fed him and spoke to him with that knowledge affixed with every motion and word. _Soon._ "What about Serroco?"

Bastila would listen to every word.

Until one hour, she awoke from a light sleep spent curled in a ball next to his outstretched legs to his voice.

His eyes were still a horrid yellow, but were able to focus. "Hello, pup."

"Excuse me?"

"You look like a loyal hound by my side."

But Bastila could nearly smile. He was making sense, somewhat, and that had to be a good sign. "Better?"

"Were you afraid?"

"I said I would protect you."

"Such a good job. What happened to: 'No death, only the Force'?"

The Jedi rediscovered her pride and legs as Revan relearned speech. "If we are to die here, then so be it."

"I suddenly have lost all faith in you being my keeper."

"Does that mean you _did_ have faith in me?" She looked at him, wondering if anyone had been so glad to be insulted by Revan.

He was blinking, stupid and slow. "You look younger when you smile."

"Excuse me?"

"Never mind. I was sick."

"Still are." She gave him water, glad for the glasses and mugs onboard so she wouldn't have to share anymore with him.

Eager, he drank, and she felt the slightest discomfort watching him. The way his mouth pursed and for that matter, seeing the uneven growth of hair on his face and scalp. Bastila would have thought that Revan awakening from that feverish state would restore him back to that intimidating creature that had killed a Jedi without hesitation, and then turned his weapon towards her. Yet there definitely seemed to be a dimple set into his pointed chin.

It would be incredibly stupid and dangerous to let her guard down, the Jedi reminded herself. Still, when she heard it, the sound made her do a double-take. Darth Revan: _hiccupping_.

He looked either embarrassed or ashamed. A frightening Sith Lord had no right to be doing such a thing, they both knew.

It wasn't funny, and it was hilarious.

Bastila couldn't help smiling. Even when she knew she must look away and ignore it.

It tampered off quickly enough, and the Jedi Sentinel was nearly disappointed. Such a human gesture, _another_ one. It did help ease her mind to know that was possible from him. He would not be loosened anytime soon, that was not what concerned her so much. For her to chip away at the hold of the dark side, that needed a good crack in his veneer.

That brief bout of illness might have been exactly what he'd needed. Awful though his face still was, perhaps underneath it all he was healthier. Just needed to speak of his past and relive what terrible things he'd done. Perhaps the mumbling had been his own attempt at redemption. One needed to acknowledge what they had done to atone for it.

"There was a bomb onboard," Bastila told him.

"A leftover gift I believe," he said. "From a certain Arkanian whose sales attempt was cut short. The bastard. Right before you got there. How fortuitous."

It might be, too.

"At least we might take a few out with us, should you trigger it if we are found. _Captured_ ," Revan explained.

 _"_ We won't get captured."

"If we are, _ah_ , what will happen do you think? Parades? Gang rape and then the firing squad? Single combat for the sake of honor? Evisceration? Will they pour molten gold down my throat? Make me long for the days of the war against the Mandalorians? Would let me face that?"

"You are under my protection and I won't let anything happen to you," Bastila promised, looking straight into his eyes.

"Do I have your word, Jedi?

"Yes. I won't let you be tortured and your corpse desecrated. But it won't come to that. You are under my protection, and the Republic would never harm a member of the Jedi Order."

"Such a comforting thought. You'd rather draw this out, Jedi?"

"Are you afraid of facing justice? Of dying?"

"Better to die than face what waist in the dark. Lose now and not face it."

"There's _nothing there, Revan."_

There wasn't. Just another lie from a Sith excuse for the war was all his story was.

He was musing aloud, "It's not that I fear dying. We will die here, I am certain. But I have no urge to suffer, and then have my hacked body paraded about. If we are caught, you put that blaster to my temple and you squeeze."

"Revan."

"Then put it to your own head." As best he could, Revan raised his hand to cut her off her comment. "I say this as a measure of decency. For your sake. Don't let Malak take you; I know what he'd do."

An odd stab at compassion for a butcher. Why?

"For attempting to save me, if in the most idiotic manner possible," he answered, and Bastila had to wonder of their Bond, of her composure and face. "I do repay my debts. And my apprentice is a man that discovered what it means to be a captive after being in the loving hands of the Mandalorians, I'm sure you've heard. He is the one that destroyed Telos, after all."

"Are you saying that you disapproved of that?"

"It was over kill. Yet to not follow through with a threat would have been folly. Better to be feared than mocked." A shrug. "I punished him. He understood what he'd done wrong after he could think clearly, when the pus and the infection cleared up and the prosthetic put into place."

She felt something unpleasant rising through her stomach, dangerous and too lovely: _hope_. "So you did have a problem with what he did?"

"Oh, no, you misunderstand; the destruction was supposed to take place _later_. As I had told him to tell the Republic."

Revan always prided himself on keeping his word.

Malak had been right to turn on this creature. The real enemy was right here, the one that had, yes, led his fellow Jedi Knight down this path. "You two deserved each other."

"So we told each other late at night when we inevitably found ourselves alone." Something silky and knowing in his voice.

"He was your best friend and apprentice." Not quite a question.

"More than that." Revan looked amused at her confused expression. Laughing at her. "I'm sure you've heard the rumors? Or did the Order try to squash even that bit of information about us?"

"What information?"

His smile was slipping away, back to that bored expressionless. A vacancy so complete that it took her until now to realize what might be partially wrong with it: only his mouth moved when he spoke, the muscles around it not stiff but _soft._ Eyes glazed and half-lidded. Smudged features that half-worked. "Or are you claiming to be so innocent you still don't understand what I'm even talking about?"

"You and Malak."

Him and Malak…? Alone at night. That repugnant smugness.

"Oh."

"Are you surprised at that?"

That put things in a slightly different light, illuminating other certain things. Appalling, and Bastila could remember her fundamental dislike of this man. Anything he touched, he ruined. Every vow they had broken, for their own selfish desire. "When you were still his teacher?"

"There was some overlap."

Bastila had never felt even the mildest pity of Malak until now. The Knight had made his choices, but with this man teaching him and breaking the Code in such a way, the fall might not have been such a surprise. "Of course you'd take advantage of a Padawan like that."

"You think he didn't like it?" Sly, his voice was.

Ugh. How could _anyone_?

—Even _before_ he had become a Sith Lord? How long had he failed to live up to the Jedi Order's expectations?

This was a man who had been the star of the Jedi Order. Entrusted to watch and care for Padawans, to watch out for his fellow Knights. He'd turned against all of them. Learned too much of war fighting the Mandalorians, it was said. Bastila had been told to look at him as an example, of what to do, of what not to do. Learn from him, when he'd gone by a different name. A hundred questions she'd had for her Master when he'd gone off to war, and now there was this new one: was it possible he had _always_ been like this? That he had had only exchanged one mask for another?

Master Zhar and Vrook had such differing views. The old, worn twilek so regretful, remembering the Knight as a gifted student, his failings were all of the Orders. Master Vrook had been so adamant of Revan's flaws, the arrogance always there, warnings scattered through the years. The Jedi Knight had grown hungry for more bloodshed, and those long months spent waiting for their return had been spent preparing the reveal of his true intentions.

How could the Order have not seen Revan for what he'd been?

"Go on: ask your questions. I have no problem discussing that. Not now, and especially not with you. Why keep secrets from each other? I probably said far too much when I had that brief illness."

What could she ask? Why could you do so many evil things? How could you turn against what you swore to protect?

"I do appreciate talking to someone. We are so freed from cliché about threatening each other a bloody death. Too bad you are such a poor conversationalist. But I'll take what I can get."

She peaked at him sideways. "Did _Malak_ not provide stimulating enough conversation?"

"You make fun of him, but we should ask ourselves: how many more people will die now, with Malak in charge of the Sith?"

"If he's so incompetent, perhaps there will be a rebellion."

"Not stupid. He's not _stupid,"_ Revan corrected. "And less willing to take chances. Case in point: what he did to my ship."

"And Telos."

"That too."

"Do you regret how things went? What you did?"

"Innocent sentient life ended because of our decision, because we could make and carry out such a decision. It wasn't justice. But I don't care about such concepts anymore." He paused. "I _did_ however. If that brings you any measure of relief.

"Force, it _does_." Revan all but rolled his eyes. "You want to know why I turned to the dark side, to defeat my enemies? It was for others that I did it. Because of others. I was sick of waiting for the Force, for the Council, for others. I didn't want to accept that others would stand by and do nothing, so perhaps I overcompensated.

"Kill this one, destroy this one, sacrifice this world. The deaths that came with those calculations. You might not believe me, but I did go out there to stop the Mandalorians. I was a Jedi Knight, doing his duty. There was still 'good' in me, if you will. It was a struggle, to balance the two. To constantly perform the calculus of lives and weighing advantages, all the while having to fear being too close or too distant.

"I grew tired. Why continue with such lies of what I was doing?"

Bastila nearly wanted to write this monologue down. A first. If only they were on Coruscant, at the Temple, and this listened to by Masters that could offer up advice as to how to handle a reply.

A different man had seemingly awoken, bloodier and tired, but saner. This was someone that could not be trusted, but listened to and speak with.

"Mercy and weighting your actions are not lies, Revan."

"That's 'Darth Revan,' Padawan. At least I got away from them, and the ranks that try to use against us. You, though, you still want them to pat your head and say good job."

But there had been more in his feverish whispers and even his orders spoke of something more… _gallant_ in Revan. Before he'd become such a traitor that had lost his way. He must have cared so deeply, if long ago, that he'd begun to avoid dealing with such heavy losses.

No matter how he carried on with bloating his ego further. Blathering on about his accomplishments and ignoring her. "So afraid of war unless it involved them…yet battle must be fought to strengthen the foundation of civilization. Someone must win as well. And it was Revan."

"You sound utterly mad when you talk about yourself in the third-person. That absurd name. It's not even your real name."

_Revanchist._

There was so much darkness implied in that name. What type of man would take on that title?

So serene. "Who's to say I haven't gone mad?"

Bastila went still.

"It _is_ said I my lost mind the year after the Mandalorian war. That year I spent beyond the boundary of Republic space. Did I wander so far? For what? What did I find out there? My own insanity?" His eyes remained watchful, even while his lips twisted upward. "Or sanity, rather. My freedom? So loosed of the Jedi shackles and then the Republics. You should try it sometime. Find yourself so far from the Jedi that their words no longer have a pull on you. I suppose you have, now, but it's not quite the same."

There was some clarity, but it was still Revan the Butcher she was facing. "Yes, you did discover what you were on the edges of the galaxy, didn't you?"

"All those titles and names…but I am my own person. They are just roles I used to get what I needed."

"Not the entire time. I don't know what you faced in the Outer Rim, but you were a Jedi."

" _Are_ you trying to convert me back?"

"Once you were the youngest Knight of our generation. You did care, and that's why you went to war, wasn't it? There must still be some flicker of light in you."

"You think you're the first to try and 'help' me? Redeem me? Save your energy. I am not your project."

"But I'm still going to try."

"Or maybe I'd convert you." Those unsettling eyes finally crinkled when he smiled. "You _could_ let me go. Join me, inasmuch as that is possible out here."

Bastila didn't need a second to refute that. "You didn't even say please."

"Has that never occurred to you? We are here, alone, with no one to judge you. Perhaps with your powers amplified with both side of the Force, we might be able to reach someone else?" That flickering smile. "I have thought about capturing you more than once. Your talents turned against the Republic would be marvelous to witness."

"I suppose that's a compliment."

"We'd have such an Empire together, with you at my side. All we could do together. I could even thank you for your obedience in several different ways. Whether you untied me or not."

She stared. "What?"

"So young. So naïve."

"What are you talking about? I should use my talents to help the Sith then?"

"In particular, use them with me. Though I wouldn't hold it against you too much if you had an eye on another Dark Jedi. Is it Malak? Because he's so tall? That handsome holonet hero look, complete with the square ja—oh, _yes, never mind._ He wouldn't be as much fun though, never was to be honest. You two are both too earnest and straightforward."

Was he saying that she had some disgusting crush on—on _Malak_? Why? How? Bastila was left staring at him, mouth open. "…what?"

Revan's was grotesquely warm. "Tell me more about your 'talents'?"

She just blinked at him, unsettled.

A long awkward moment passed before Revan finally continued with his point: "Are you truly this daft?"

"What exactly are you hinting of?"

"You really did not leave the Temple much, did you? What a waste of a charming, if controlling and attractive Jedi."

Charming? _Attractive_? What was— _oh_.

No.

_No, thank you._

Bastila knew immediately that she shouldn't be physically, literally, backing away from him. At the least, it only made things more awkward, and must only give him more ammunition. Yet nothing logical could help the sick thrill going through her. She wanted the bucket right now, to vomit into. Run into the bathroom, all dignity gone, to shower a thousand times. "You were not referring to my Battle Meditation."

"No. But I _was_ joking: you're not charming."

"Were you really—" All but recoiling.

"More _neurotic_ than anything." Revan cocked his head, studying her. "But there is some appeal to that."

She wanted to cover herself with a blanket. Kick him and then run away. Even fully dressed, she could feel exposed under those gleaming eyes. Revan, hinting towards what she could only imagine. Even the soldiers, whom she had been so warned about by a discreet Jedi Knight, had shown her far more respect. Nothing more than obsequious, and polite by comparison. Courteous men and women that treated her with a certain deference, if anything.

"Still your wild, girlish heart, Shan. You don't have to sleep with a lightsaber under your pillow to keep me off you."

Shudders after shudders. "Yes. Thankfully you are restrained."

"Oh, it's not that. You'll find my scoundrel appearance and devil-may-care attitude quite appealing soon enough. So go head and fight it; it would be boring if you just gave in."

"I _would never_ —"

"Tell me more about how bad I am and how I can make up for it." His Adam's apple a bulge as he looked up.

She retreated backwards another foot. "I liked you better when you were mumbling feverish nonsense."

That made his smile shrink, just a little. Then it rebounded. "Yes, I'm sure you did like me helpless. Are you this controlling in all matters, or just when it comes to sexual conquests?"

This was going to be a long journey.

Especially with _that_ now lying between them as a decomposing body might. A joking preposition. Grotesque, Revan's appearance became again, anew. Every time he opened his mouth, Bastila learned something new and awful about him. All these new grotesque angles to gape at.

Bastila had faced similar jests and hints before, requests and polite gestures from those she served with. Briefly. Once or twice, yes. Well. Inasmuch as far as she could measure, given her own limited experience with such things. Perhaps even those had been misunderstandings on her own part, and they had truly been earnest and she had been too cold in her dismissal of sharing meals and answering questions.

Other Jedi had never— there were _dalliances_ among the apprentices, but no one had ever approached her; they had known better than to expect Bastila Shan to ever agree to such a thing. But after having left their company had she become more aware of such things.

Only once she had left the Enclave had she been approached in such a way.

She was young and considered pretty enough (' _charming, if controlling and attractive_ ') for those to stare at her and wonder. If that had indeed been what had happened. Miscommunications, perhaps. Some had been simply curious, and others polite and inquisitive; all dismissed with varying politeness. No, Bastila did not want to 'go out for drinks after this shift' and would not speak about her family or where she was from or answer any questions about personal matters.

Especially not ones from reporters that wanted to ask if she had a beau, if there was another truth to the rumors of Jedi celibacy, was she aware of a certain rumor (asked with such a disgusting smile) involving how she planned to convince Revan the Butcher and Malak to turn from their mad reign of terror—no, Bastila would not think about that anymore.

No, surely they hadn't meant…no. No.

Yet, as uncomfortable as all those other time before, none certainly had been so obvious about it as Revan, and none had disgusted her as much as his jokes.

From now on, every word and look took on a new, frightening significance.

No—Bastila would not falter. He had just been trying to scare her and it would not work. Revan could not have such feelings. Look at that face, no way would anyone agree to such a dalliance with that man. He had just tried to see her flinch, and Bastila had shamefully given him what he'd wanted in that regard.

Again, with the bucket and trying to look away. Pretend someone else was doing this, handling him in such a way. A nurse, she had healed people on the battlefield, and Bastila wished she were back there, with soldiers that depended on her. Fighting for the Republic. Anywhere, truly, but here.

With Revan watching her every reaction. Making terrible comments that they both knew were absurd and meant only to wound her in whatever way Revan could. He tried to act like he really wasn't ashamed of all this, and actually relished this attention. That it wasn't mortifying for both of them. Like Bastila might be _enjoying_ this contact.

Perhaps it was whatever Bond might have been formed that gave him such insight into her feelings–or else Bastila had been still making a disgusted expression.

"Normally," Revan elucidated, "I don't find myself preoccupied by such things, but we are Bonded."

Through the hair falling into her eyes, Bastila stared. "What are you talking about?"

"Besides that, this could be our last few days before we join the Force. A little excitement isn't uncommon."

"We aren't going—"

"We'll die terrible deaths. If Malak gets us, or the Empire. Angry Republic soldiers. What they would do to us. A mob."

Is that what he thought? Feared? Nothing would cheer her more than to see Republic ships that would pick up her transmitting signal. If it was a Sith ship…she still wasn't sure what to do then. Revan could not be handed over back to them. Perhaps he wouldn't be reinstated as the Supreme Grand Master of the Sith or whatever grandiose title he referred to himself as, but would be tortured by them for failing. He was under her protection, for better or worse.

Nice, comforting, to see that he did have fears as any other mortal.

Until the Sith continued, "With such high stakes, why not _appreciate_ the others company?"

She would not let him get under her skin (or clothes), and thus would not be sick in front of him. "I will never allow myself to give into such feelings."

"Does that mean you have feelings then?"

"No, yes—not in that way. Stop smiling! _I am not_ _attracted to you, Revan_." The very fact that her mouth had to form such words was a wound that could never be healed. "And no one will harm you while I am around."

"Or, rather, both of us will be strung up. I am the worst traitor. Followed by you."

" _Me_!?"

"You _spared_ the worst traitor. Also, you've touched my penis."

Bastila stood up and walked away. Locked herself in the refresher for three hours by her chrono's account, though it felt much shorter. There, she rediscovered calming pace and how much better one felt after washing their face (and hands, again and again she scrubbed them) at least. Only after finally growing sick, not of his wails but of the eerie silence that had followed them, did she come out. You could nearly hear the cogs turning in his head as he plotted.

"Are you ready to be a man again? Or do you insist on acting like a little boy?"

"Oh, I am a _man_. Aren't I?" His hideous face so alight with sadistic cheer. Lines drawn into his face with that smirk, Force, even with all her training Bastila hated that smirk. Even from a distance, if you didn't know him and what he was, that smile should have sent others running away. "You should probably tuck it away. For your own sake."

She tried not to flinch. He wouldn't eat her alive—no, he would just make her uncomfortable. That was the worst he could do. Yes, she would cover him up and spare herself the sight.

A twitch.

Not enough oxygen. On any planet.

On _purpose_ he'd done that.

Eye contact made her head erupt in flames. He was not the first person she had seen naked, but it had been very different from this. There had been no sexual context then, and it had been solely for the purposes of healing injuries, anatomical studied—and she can nearly hear Revan making a joke about that. She inhaled, sniffed, and went back briefly to being a nurse.

"Like I said, normally I don't care. Maybe it's the brain damage."

"'Care'? Is that what it is?"

Talking about caring with Revan. This is what her world had become. What a strange twist. Perhaps he was still sick.

Or she was. Her own fevered dream.

"We seem to be having miscommunications entomology in nature."

"How so?"

"Love and desire can be different."

"It's still passion."

It still led to the dark side. Attachments that took over another. Bastila had read about such things. Failing from previous Jedi, and how their own loves had doomed them.

"Truly? What of Masters and their apprentices? Did you not love your teachers? Do the students not love each other as well?"

"Did you?"

Had he loved his teachers, and still turned against them. What of his first, of Master Kae? The exiled Jedi Master that had trained Revan Bastila so rarely heard of her anymore. Died, in the Mandalorian war. She had been a historian, a talented seeker of some sort and if her name was spoken of again, it was in a whisper.

"So many secrets in the Enclave. Of Masters and apprentices. Do you want to hear of me and Malak? That will give us something to talk about."

"I don't want to hear about your exploits with Malak." Such a thing might really make her reach for a weapon. To use on herself, as she wasn't so foregone as to hurt Revan. Yet.

"Later, then." He leaned back, away. Eyes closing. "A child she has. My old Master. Did you know that?"

"Who? _Kae_? The _Jedi Master_ Kae?"

"See? Isn't this a nicer chance from glaring at each other? You're a quick study, Shan. We are two sentient beings that need distraction, no?" He cracked one eye open. There were striations of gold and amber in those eyes. "I do hope we'll become closer in the coming days.

Bastila was able to hold back the shudder, but not the grimacing. Simply to discomfort her, Revan did this.

"I never wanted to screw you before this. Well. Maybe some morbid curiosity. After you joined me, we would have done that, I suspect."

"I have a whole new reason for adhering to the light side now." Her voice was curiously flat. Perhaps her own aneurism was coming.

"You seemed like someone that really has a lot of pent up energy. Malak would have enjoyed—"

"Stop right there."

"At least he would have liked watching us. Then joining in after getting all jealous."

The _images._ Like a punch to the stomach. How could she exist in a galaxy were such things were uttered? There was no passion, no death, but there were unspeakable horrors. Two thousand showers Bastila needed. " _I mean it_. I will get the gag."

"Yes, Master." Revan did not mean that title as one of respect.

Bastila huffed, turning away. For a solid ten minutes they looked into their respective air, and tried not to wonder how much oxygen was left.

"They spoke of what you did out there. Rumors."

It was what they wanted to believe. Complete dissolution of Jedi control.

"Murder and insanity, suicides, mass orgies, death pacts and torture, a lot of that." His tone so dry.

Yet, not unkindly, she got up to find a rag to dab at the dried blood on his forehead. At least diminish the signs of what they'd been through. Make everything neat. He might even be grateful, and stop speaking. "Are you saying they were right?"

"Less lurid than you think. After a while it could all be reduced to insertion of one thing into another. All of it."

"Even the death pacts?"

"Wanting to insert a blade or poison or the ground to your head is close enough. All of it just depends on who's doing the inserting."

"I see. Perhaps I did miss a grand opportunity by not following you to war."

"It was fun." Revan sounded serene, unmistakably content.

A nurse cleaning at a wound, that was all. One that did not have to like her patient. "You are a disgusting failure of a man."

"Failure? Enough of that self-pity. Crying as you burn another village you don't even know the name of because someone might judge you? Pathetic. Half the combat training at the Enclave was just to teach us not to flinch when we attacked the enemy. Using those skills on Mandalorians? It was fun. Liberating. Never let anyone tell you otherwise." Revan didn't blink at whatever expression was on her face. "You would have liked it. Losing your control over so much and then finding it in the smallest of things. No one came back for a reason, Shan."

Her pulse beat in her ears. "They were having _too much fun_?"

"Yes. Like kids at the circus. Ever go to one of those? Sure, someone might throw up, but that's the price of admission."

All lies.

There was evidence otherwise, after all. "Tell that to the Exile."

It triggered something, a flicker of muscle twitching under her hand covered by the musty rag. "You're lucky the Exile wasn't the one you grabbed. What a self-absorbed fool my general was."

Then Revan went silent, to brood.

Later, a day maybe, Revan expanded on that and would go on and on about the Exile. But finally, he did continue to speak of his general, so gone years ago. A trigger for him, some exposed nerves that he did have after all.

 _After_ had been a long stretch of time, of silences and watching each other, trying not to argue with him, to flinch away from his stares. Meditate and watch the walls and hear his breaths.

Revan would rant, even while she cared for him.

The deep voice lifted, accent shifting. "'Oh, look at me, so above the fray, so full of angst over what I did, how could I?' Half-Jedi. All idiot. You think my general didn't know what was to happen?"

"What happened to the exile was tragic. Wasn't the general your friend? Your _loyal_ general?"

"But only helpful to a point."

Hair brown, but tinted a richer red than her own, wavy but dense. Mosslike. Stubble finally appearing, and she could count the black dots. Mouth colorless but full. Having to brush this man's teeth. "I feel like a whole new Sith Lord. Thank you."

"The Exile…?"

"That the exile gave up and wanted to do back home was tragic. You tell me I'm sick for treating it like a game? I'm the cold monster? What about those that were never there yet continue judging what happened? What does that make him for returning home like it never happened? Like it was temporary insanity and not discovering a secret of the galaxy."

"What secret?"

"You have to learn it on your own to understand. Maybe you will, when we get closer to the end."

She bit her tongue. Let it go. "You're not saying it was worth it."

"I don't understand that sentiment."

"At least, think of those that died after you turned against the Republic. And Kae died. Your master."

"Like a mother."

"You said she _was_ a mother."

"Did I? They kept certain things hushed. Her own exile, or rather, when she chose to leave."

"Because of having a child? Some sort of disillusionment?"

"Yes. She could forgive either but not both."

"Who?"

"When they forgave her for what they felt were failing and still rejecting her truth. Ultimately, she had to leave."

"I don't understand."

"What she gave up, what she felt she had tainted, it deserved punishment. But not by them. What did they know? Have they ever fought, fallen in love? Yet, who else could she turn to for hatred? It can be a very peaceful experience, in its own way. You know where you stand.

"They didn't though, punish her. So that only made it worse to live with herself after what rules she'd broken. Forgiveness can be a harsh medicine. It meant she might have to forgive herself, and that Kae could not do."

"Why not?"

"She hated do-overs, my Master. Better to always regret and cling to that."

"Why would anyone want that?"

A shrug. "It might mean actually facing and owning up to what she did. Mercy and forgiveness can be more dangerous than anything else. The Jedi are right about that. You see, if she forgave, absolved, herself, she might have to make amends. Would her child forgive her? That was the question she refused to asked, maybe the only one. Poor Kae, it was so obvious, and that only made her hate it more.

"She and Alek were more alike than they realized. All that metaphysics and maudlin narcissism. Making pain something more meaningful than rancor shit."

Charming, the way he had with words. A great orator for their generation.

"Going on about names as even I didn't. Me, I'd prefer tangibles than abstract logic. That gets you sitting in libraries and when you look up from that datapad, what do you find? Your lover running off to fight a war. Too bad you never got to ask Atris about that. Like to imagine that conversation."

None of that could be believed. He was only toying with her, to distract himself from his own discomfort and failure. But Bastila could play along, wait him out until there was an end to stories and fables. "Who did she have a child with?"

"You wouldn't know him. I never got it. He was too exotic for her. Straightforward, exasperatingly so. Opposites attract, yes? We understood each other, though, and how dangerous we were, even if we never fought until the end."

"End?"

"I killed him. I would say that was the end. A year ago? No. More. It runs together, this war."

How many similar stories ended the same for him?

"Do I get a cracker now?"

"Is the child…?"

"Alive? For now. You could say that about a few people."

"You could be lying."

He would make her suspicious, questioning of everything she knew of the Order, if he could.

"Yeah, maybe I'm making this whole thing up. I did hit my head pretty hard and my memories aren't what they used to be. Was _Kae_ my first master? Were _you_ one of the Padawans that slid dopey love letters under my door?"

" _Never_."

"We'll never know." Voice saccharine.

"If you're not lying, then explain why she felt if she was no longer a Jedi. To ask forgiveness is to be a Jedi."

"Tell me, what will you say if we survive this, and you're brought before the Council? Oh, no, we definitely remained chaste and I'm still a good little Jedi. Please let me become a Knight now."

"We _have_ —remained chaste."

A little boy grin. "Give it a week. When things get rough."

Heartbeats and breaths and neurons firing, all this happening, the conscious awareness of them. A week. Force help her if they were here for that long. Long enough for her to somehow find him attractive enough to forget her vows. How could a psychotic maniac look _better_ after seven more days of being chained up? How bad could _she_ be, to agree to his claims of possessing 'debonair charm'? How could he think that of her?

"I will never do that, Revan."

"I have seen what people do when things get _rough_."

Curious, how numb her face felt. "What are you saying? That we will have some clandestine affair I'll be so eaten alive with shame that I'd leave the Order than face being judged?"

That they would ever survive this?

"You said it, not me."

Bastila all but shoved a broken stale cracker into his mouth, half-hoping he would choke. "I'm not so filled with loathing, Revan."

With his head cocked and one cheek filled, Revan looked nearly amusing. "That you'd leave?"

"That I'd let myself be seduced by you."

"Who's doing the seducing?" He waved a hand. "I'm the one tied up."

Yes. And that's where you will remain.

Until—until someone comes for us. Someone will find us. Or we'll find them. Another few days. Just give it another few more days.

I can live with Revan for that long.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, I was wrong folks. I thought I could post the middle of the story in just one chapter, but it was way too unwieldy for that, and ended up way too much. So now I'm going to break it up into five parts. It's really grown out of control, this story. 
> 
> Thanks for the comments and kudos and favoriting, and just for reading through all of this.

 

* * *

_You don't know I sing these songs about you_

_You don't know the pseudonyms I assume_

_You don't know the pseudonyms I assume for you_

_Are you happier now that the gods are dying_

_Or do you dream of Heston with omniscient fear?_

_You should be happier now with no one to pray to_

_Or would I love to break your knees from beggin' and prayin'_

_Bite hard, well, it's a broken smile_

_Breaking their hearts and breaking their minds_

_Bite hard, well, it's a 505_

_Your engine's alive, we ride together_

_Bite hard, bite hard_

_I may be lonelier now but I'm happy alone, honest_

_I ain't lonely alone but what would we talk about anyway?_

_No, I'd never resort to kissing your photo, honest_

_I just had to see how the chemicals taste now, honey_

\- Bite Hard, Franz Ferdinand

* * *

He was helpless before her. For her will and use. And how well she knew of that fact.

 It was something that pleased her, to know that she had Revan at her mercy. She had cared and wanted him to live. For this. A hungry mouth swallowed him up, again and again. Saw it before he could feel it, imagined it. Being taken into that warmth. Familiar and still new, and her still desperate for him, to please him. For him, for him, she did this. Ropy threads and her eyes closed and his spine hurt and—

And.

Revan became aware of his consciousness from the sound emitted from his throat and the staccato sound of his boots drumming against the ground. Notice his moaning even as he tried to stop it. Cease right now. Uh.

Ugh.

_Uh._

His eyes hurt and pulsed in their sockets. Revan felt anything that strong, not in such an obvious sexual way. Could literally not remember the last time he’d gone through those motions that passed as a facsimile for sex. Let alone masturbated. All of that mess. Lifeless and rubbery they had been, and Revan clung to those memories to oppose the speed of his heart and the fireworks still sparking in his eyes.

Never had he been aggravated by an orgasm.

She would see his reaction. Take notice, and make some comment. Be even more insufferable. More fluids on his clothes, besides the dried blood.

Well.

_This_ was a new turn of events.

He had never been properly tortured before. Only heard of it from Alek, from Kae, from countless people that had faced the Mandalorians. On Malachor, the Academy there he’d helped rebuild, he had been on the other end of the knife. The one to make jokes of the laws of physics and physiology. Only intellectually Revan had understood how people could be broken so. No one was better at sticking in the blade than him. Training others for the same, part of his gift for encouraging the best from people.

He had some low moments as well, in his life, that was true. A few anyway. Fighting the Council for control, on Cather, on Dxun when he’d experienced his first bright filament of fear for the first time in his young life, finding Malachor and the swelling disgust the first few endless weeks of learning what a person could do if they wanted, if they were freed.

But, no. All paled before this pit.

_This_ was now officially the lowest Revan had ever been.

Here was the torture he had ducked out on.

Justice. It was just as Bastila proclaimed with a might nod, before thinking on it and realizing she’d been again the butt of a joke. Then scramble to heal her hurt self-esteem and warped sense of worth, justice, _yes_ , that just showed how his thought process was so flawed and he should be grateful for this chance to redeem himself.

A huff. _No more than you deserve, Revan._

_You?_

At least he wasn’t thinking about his failure, about what waited out there in the dark for him to falter, about Malak and the worse excuses for Sith that remained. About what it had felt to be so wounded, to have another in his head and that awful assault. About what it was like to be without his powers, any of them, helpless as a child. 

Force, but he despised her. All of Bastila Shan. There would be nothing sweeter than wrapping his hands around her throat and squeezing, seeing the fear rise in her eyes, the flush as she fought back. Finally, Revan would beat this weak Jedi that had flapped around him for so long, this thorn in his side, the last gasping comeback from the Republic and the Order. Break and ruin her and leave only the barest hint of life in her, to savor, before he broke her neck. That was his most relished dream, and one he clung to.

That had been his most relished dream. Once. Days ago.

Until he realized how pathetic that was.

Until his anger was not a single harsh layer that made him see red, and he was capable of speaking to her without threats. Until he looked forward to hearing her, in those long nights when he couldn’t sleep. Until he understood how he depended on her compassion, and saw her pity and how she tried to do what was right. Until— _this._

Now he had a new pathetic dream.

The jokes he’d made at her expense came back to haunt him. When he’d watched her, to make her uncomfortable, now only made him uneasy.

Was I being serious? Was that a joke?

Revan admired his domain again. His tomb. If they were ever found, it would be told to the apprentices as a grisly ironic tale. A life lesson. They died _together_. She had done her duty, that bright Padawan, only a Padawan so you have no excuses not to do the same and give your life up. Do you see, you can never fall to the dark side and almost must keep yourself restrained and lesser because of it.

This was the place he would die and, and yet had been saved in. Free, freed of one cage he’d been in for years, while simultaneously trapped in so many ways.

No, Bastila would not loosen the restraints that sunk into his skin and bruised what was already hurt. And he would never be able to finally silence that never-ceasing mouth of hers. And most definitely, she would not do what had happened in that absurd dream. 

Revan inspected the bars, and his captor.

Of all people—

Tied up and defeated by a Padawan. That was the most indignant part, the thing that stung the most. A girl not yet mature enough to even be a Knight, to train others, to be anything more than a pawn—and she had been the one to _capture him_. Malak had turned on him, and Revan had deserved all he got for turning his back and being so unprepared, but by his _apprentice’s_ hand. His equal. Better. Not some teenager, a half-adult that got lucky at the right moment. Some student with one little gift at, what _, encouraging_ others. Compared to all what Revan was capable of? Her. Caught by _her_. Lost to Bastila Shan, even after hitting his head as he had, that was just _pathetic_. 

A Padawan, not even a Knight, was his capturer. This was to whom he would spend the last days of his life with? Having to listen to her, curse and insult her in another language, only to have it turn out she knew it already and could understand enough to know what he was saying—even giving some back. She would turn on her heel, and get right next to him, to ask, to demand answers from him, to make all sorts of retorts to his comments. ‘How would you like it if I treated you the same—‘

‘As though you _could_.’

An angry sniff—no one could inhale with so much fury as Bastila could. Brief treasured silence. Then she would snap and just have to make some comment on that. 

If he was loosed, there were so many things he’d do to her. Show her what he’d taught those other Jedi. _Yes._ Or just wrap these chains around her throat, pull backwards and watch the spray of blood from the artery, the pulse. Pull her nice and close and sink his teeth into her skin, become an animal. Lick that pulse point beneath her earlobe. Smell her hair.

_Force._

He would not allow those thoughts the dignity of lingering in his mind. As a boy, he’d learned and developed the ability to hone his mind, something that had lapsed as the years passed and he clung to his own sanity with blistered fingers. Unwanted thoughts and fantasies might plague him, but not like _this_. His mind was his own and full of ghosts, those he conversed with endlessly, and those ghosts did not berate then crawl into his lap and smile at him.

Revan would not have it, he would _not_. 

_You have no choice._

But I do, there is always a choice, one can always fight.

Slide the blade in. Peel her clothes off. Humiliate her as before he’d despised others for doing. If you do this, Padawan, I’ll let you live. Better, yes. Only, she would never do that, and that drove under his skin, made him grit his teeth. If she did, it would be mocking, and there was something pleasurable about that, her going _along with him_. You would do that with me, to make me happy? Shake her, break her into so many pieces, throw her around the cabin, see the fear on her face, if you will not join me you will be broken. _Want me._ Hold her. Godsdamnit.

I have no choice.

Out there, in that black oblivion, he had been perilously close to something. A thing that would remove his separate being, his self, and take over. The greatest horror of being a puppet—as the Mandalore had. A secret thing that Malak would never speak of. He had escaped that, only to be led into a snare so clumsy it could not work, he denied that it had caught him even as he fell for the true trap.

(Revan _had_ escaped that place, hadn’t he? What if this was all another nightmare that stretched out and he would not wake up from, no matter how hard he tried?)

He inspected himself again.

This awkward jutting thing there that confirmed that his body had turned traitor. The legs turned to twitching sources of agony as nails were driven into his feet. A constant ache in his back and his wrists still bore cuts. His face was a swollen mystery to him. His boots scuffed and marked when before they’d been so shined.

Revan heard the discordant note before his eyes found her.

Her. Bastila broke all established reality. His own thoughts and reactions could not be trusted around her. All of the boundaries had been so violated, and she wondered why he hated and lusted for her. How could she act as though meaning hadn’t been destroyed? Her presence spread across all three dimensions, and Revan struggled to recall every meeting across a battlefield, any shared classroom, all mentions of her name, his own brief study of her as she slept and dreamed. The abject.

Revan had never quite got the appeal of that one, the supposed One that complete the Self. The desire to lose oneself in another. Or even something as minor as enjoying women say, _necessarily_ , over men. Preferring one humanoid form to another. Harsh lines compared to softened curves. The shape of a face that twisted something inside was a fact that he had only heard about in literature. Revan had seen plenty of naked bodies, dead or alive, and they held no more secrets from him. Some of those naked had been women too (and alive), and they had been ones considered more _conceptually_ attractive than Shan. Aesthetically speaking. Quieter too and better trained. All he wanted from them at any time, should he have been tempted. What could Bastila even offer _him_?

Yet.

There was the knife’s edge that slid between his ribs and indeed, pierced the heart, and its name was a denial, an excuse, a question: Y _et_.

There she was. Sleeping and something stirred in him because of that. Just like when she frowned, or (and it occurred so rarely) smiled at him. It had crept up on him, more cunning than any assassin, twice as deadly as any poison, as mortally wounding as a disease.

There was a twist at the blankly exciting exposed leg. Alright. Those loose pants would have to be mocked in the morning, a show for me, hm? Until he couldn’t look away, not even when he realized he was staring. No, more than staring, stares could mean so many things and this was something pointed; he had been _admiring_. Muscled but thin, a fighter but one that was strained and reduced from stress and soon, a lack of nutrition. Olive tinted skin turned pale. Her small calf with a scar on the ankle. That firm flare of her arse, her flat stomach and the trail of her legs. Travel up the curve to her face. Young and idiotic, not yet cynical and not even drooling this time. Sleeping peacefully, and Revan didn’t know whether he wanted to wake her violently, or let her sleep. Given his condition, there were limitations to take into account, though he could yell, or hiss, or sing and watch her eyes flutter awake. Watch her reaction.

Was that it? Her passion for control? That scowling face with delicate features that were so fragile, annoyingly so. That upturned button nose that twisted, with the sunken bridge, her damn _nose_. Full dark pink mouth, Iridonian roses, pouting and it embarrassed Revan, the very existence and notice of that part of her face. Safer ground in that rounded jawline and round small chin. Conventionally attractive. Eyes that shade he couldn’t determine was gray or blue because he couldn’t stand to look at them that closely for so long. _Cute_ , in some way that Revan was perplexed to determine. Fumble with descriptions in a way that was worrying. Pleasantly shaped, muscled, high cheeks—so what? Ridiculous hair, russet shaded to auburn. All complexly pinned and Revan had lost literally hours from what remained of his life trying to figure out how she styled it.

Not _exotic._ Just a human girl prone to bouts of self-righteousness. Not like the dancers, of Twilek and human and etc., offered up, the Dark Jedi, soldiers, fighters of varying genders, all wanting him. A half-grown schoolgirl like Shan should never have gotten a second glance.

Bastila would have taken his hand off if he tried to so much as poke at her. Or cut something else off.

Yet Revan still wanted to try it.

Was _that_ it? Her obvious dislike. Unimpressed. That she didn’t bow before him?  Their arguments that left them both winded and Revan had never despised someone so much, with her sneers and refusals that left him grinning when he didn’t want to because of her galling pride and confidence. The way she went about things, so uptight and insisting she was in control of everything. Even as they literally floated along helpless, Bastila insisted on finding order and demanding they both learn something from this experience. Recite the Code again, ignore Revan telling her of the dark side, perhaps while sweeping and making tea, then lose her calm finally and begin lecturing him right back on all his flaws. Lapse into furious silence, both of them would, and that was what passed for peace between them. Boredom finally an outlet by asking one question or another, (there was some curiosity about his life and choices, whether or not she would admit to it) and then hopelessly, the conversation would tangle. Talk over and around each other, knowing it, and unable to stop.

Swallow, dry-mouthed. So tired of circling around each other. Over-defensive even when denying that the other might have any point. Lapse into bitter silence. But when you began to speak again, it wasn’t agreeing for the sake of peace, oh no, you could not stand to be wrong. Why don’t you give up!? Because _you_ won’t. Damned both of them were. Justice, indeed.

He did not hate her, somehow. Not entirely. That might be the most confusing thing for him. Revan did not despise her, she did not stir that wrath he’d discovered early in his first war, and he understood that despite their fights, Bastila was not his enemy. Instead, the Revanchist wanted to probe and talk about her parents and teachers, if she remembered a certain lesson, why did she wear those certain robes, anything and everything. Tell him everything, even as he winced and cringed away from the sound of his own voice that might be cajoling or pathetic.

Once, not long ago, Revan had even wanted this. Had practically begged for the chance to meet her. To murder, or better yet, to speak to. That’s all it might take. She would not be the first or last Jedi that he’d broken and turned. He had even studied the Republic’s patterns, and wondered if they would send Bastila Shan closer to the front lines for the next battle. If the Republic gave him the chance to greet their new little weapon, he would gladly take it, and _had_.

Imagine if he had been so lucky.

Finally, he pulled his eyes upward to explore the low ceiling.

If Revan had stolen her away, had ever kidnapped her, she would fight every inch and refuse to turn until the last minute, when she gave in and went crazy and tried to kill him. Seduce her using all his cunning and will power until they were naked in his room, only to have her pull out a weapon from _nowhere_ and stab him in the face the first chance Bastila got. Torture and break her, only it seemed that she could hold up for longer than he would have thought, only to weaken at the last minute at her sorrow in a lapse of judgment—then get stabbed in the face by his own weapon. Give up everything when facing her, go back all the way back to his flagship, _I surrender!—_ then Malak would turn on him at that exact second as Bastila lowered her weapon so Revan would fall headfirst onto her blade. 

She was his doom.

But still, Bastila in black robes…

No, no, imagine what she’d do to the others, fetching in dark colors that would lend the color of her eyes a certain dusky appeal or not. If she had followed him to war, her throwing her head back her and cackling as she discovered Force lightning and taking Revan out as soon as he turned his back. If she had ever met Kae and witnessed those lessons. His ‘protocol’ droids. So much of it would be met with her disapproval, ‘Is that it, Revan, some rusty droids and a few holocrons?’

‘No!’ Revan would refute, steamed, a rising unhelpful heat baking his ears. Then introduce her to his other toys. He had so many now.

Guards draped in red and blacks. Old machinery and droids meant to kill Jedi specifically. The assassins that would have to be called in to take her down after Bastila lost it and began attacking the Star Forge, oh, it was all feigned of course. Yes, the Sith Lord would fall for it. A lie, except she would look up splattered in blood and realize she had indeed fallen. While Revan watched and applauded and then perhaps found an escape route as she noticed him there and knew damn well that he was probably to blame for all of this. Games they could play together that spanned the galaxy. Hell, they had been playing a more sophisticated game of Chase for the last few months anyway.

He on one side, and she on the other, fighting using their soldiers as pawns to slap and fight one another. Until finally they met, face-to-face, and that was then Malak decided to screw him over. His apprentice really had learned from the best. You could almost be proud of him for that. Still, if Revan could have, he would have taken Bastila Shan as his new student. After decapitating Malak, of course. 

Introduce her to so much, and watch her wreck and ridicule all of it. Unleash the passions and then run away as she decided to be the best Sith Lord _ever_. Kill her Master? She would not let the Empire down. A hundred and ten percent Bastila gave everything. Perfectionist. Look down at his grisly remains after hearing him call her a moron. ‘But Master, you said the apprentice rose to become the leader?’

Last breathe wasted on her to inform her that usually happened after the master had actually taught the apprentice for longer than five minutes.

What type of person invited their own doom to come closer? Poke at disaster as Revan never had before. Sith Lords did not allow such ridiculousness. He had been nearly as confused as HK-47 during a particular failed assassination. The warning about attachment and love had never bothered him about the Order, even.

He had narrowed down his own Empire, the Master and Apprentice, but that was with steady deliberation and consideration. For the Greater, that decision had been made. That was the closest thing to choosing to share a life with another as Revan had ever reached.

This was…self-destruction of the most selfish and bewildering kind. 

Were these feelings even his own? What if they were nothing more than hers, twisted and pushed onto him? Was that better or worse, for Shan to have such control over his very thoughts? Was there any difference?  Could someone really claim that Bastila _really_ was secretly drawn and obsessed with him, wanted him, enjoyed his attentions and wanted him as much as he did her? Was that _so_ much to ask?

If he looked into her eyes for too long, Revan might be sucked in. His senses—his soul, to be so dramatic—sucked out. What would she be like as a lover?

Frightening.

—needy, demanding, neurotic. More so than usual. So the same disaster. Only they would have sex.

Huh. Well, that would pass the time.

_Disastrous_ sex though. Presumably. It would have surely been her first time, and that was always an awkward affair for all involved. Add in the distrust and her natural stubbornness, and it could become painful. For _him_.

If the situation had been different, Revan would never have even dreamed of seducing ever being brought up. She would have been another Jedi he’d helped find their true strength, or another dead Jedi. Now the Sith imagined her captured and locked while he grinned sadistically, then began lecturing her on the merits of the dark side until Bastila begged for mercy. Her so teary and desperate, hair falling into her face for Revan to push back. He might stop, he might relent, but not until she begged, ‘Not until you call me Master.’ See her look up at him, those full lips parted, a flick of her tongue as she struggled to not give in. 

(Oh, _that_ had turned disquietingly perverted very quickly. Never mind. Move on. Forget about it. Until later.) 

Give her the keys to his kingdom, just to imagine her expression. Introduce her to his realm and plans. ‘Here is the torture room. Over there is my bedroom. There may be some overlap.’ Run away as she grabbed her lightsaber but not run too fast so as to miss witnessing the slipping self-control and vitriol. Turn around to point and laugh when a droid caught her, watch as Bastila would chop it in two, then turn around to aim for his own head.

All that appetite she claimed didn’t exist let loose. That might be very frightening. For him.

Revan imagined himself somewhere, perhaps on Korriban, his back turned as he studied his growing domain on maps that sprawled forever. A shiver through the Force, a warning. Then, from the shadows a dark figure struck, literally clubbed his head and then dragged the Dark Lord into the bedroom. Again, chained up for her perverted obsessions and consuming controlling habits, the lectures and demands—only this time there would be more open sexual subtext.

Take her to bed? Him lead another so eagerly into the boudoir? Whatever for? The curiosity of it, her disdain and the self-hatred that would come with agreeing with such a thing. But Bastila would never do such a thing.

Never. Never ever, Revan.

Should he earnestly attempt to woo her, in a different life of flowers and offers of dinner, she would have a stroke. Never, oh, never, didn’t you hear me you disgusting, lecherous, _evil_ man. Back away from his sad form holding a limp bunch of flowers. No, this was Bastila Shan; she would never let anything just _go_.

There would be harassment and vomiting and rants. Smacks with his own gifts. Revan would run away, apologizing all the while, and she would follow him to pinpoint what exactly he wanted and what had gone so wrong in his life to think she might ever be interested in him. Kicked and wounded and rejected.

Revan had seen such courting, if only on holos.

What role was he to play? A wonderful caring lover that whisked her away from the celibate Order. Taboos broken and redefined love made, _oh, my._ Dashing and handsome he was supposed to be as he wooed her. In tighter pants and less buckets and chains. Add some torn robes of silk and more smoldering looks. Alak to act as the villain and add some spice to the second act. Finally, a classy kiss and a tasteful fall of the curtains.

He did know what he was supposed to be, in some holodrama of his life. It was pitifully easy to cobble the basic plot up. Even the costuming was easy. Her in something frilly and delicate and there should be less kicking. In general. No threat of starvation but perhaps coldness and having to huddle for warmth. Come closer my dear Bastila, he would whisper. Revan, you monster, no, I cannot, I hate all you stand for! But I must give into your charm—just this one shamefully time for a single kiss. Sense would return and she would shove him aside very hard so he could act the pained gold-hearted scoundrel, hurt finally by this rejection from his angel and rush off in one particularly dramatic gesture. But then, Malak would show up and threaten her, the real villain revealed and thus someone must rescue her. The climax. Revan would turn out to be the hero after all, to rescue the princess with his trusty comic relief sidekick (actor still undecided, HK or the exiled general? Just strap some bell to either, really) introduced previously in the first act.

Then: one final duel to the death.  Malak would make a hammy show of his last words as Revan bore his own wound, living long enough to stumble into Bastila’s arms. Oh, tragedy! One final kiss, ah, true love. The audience would weep and applaud, on their feet, bravo. Bow and be buried in the flowers tossed at them. 

Backstage, finally, Bastila would slap him. That kiss had lasted far too long, and he better not have thought she hadn’t seen him staring at her when she’d been tied up by those ropes and left to dangle like that. Messing up his lines like that in the third act. That hard toss into the set before she could finish with her monologue. And it had taken her hairdressers so long to do this. Still, Revan would be a mook in a billowing shirt, trailing after her. Does this mean we won’t meet up at the after party?

He grimaced, grinned.

The Revanchist should have given this Force user thing up and just become a playwright instead. Should he get out of this alive, that’s what he would do. Turn over a leaf and begin a false identity as a writer of vulgar romance novels that would make him rich enough to buy an entire planet and retire in peace.

Except even then Shan would track him down—but might have actually gone through with killing him so Revan would have come out ahead.

The problem was, this wasn’t a holodrama. Probably. If only.

All an elaborate act! Bastila, any second, would wake up and expose the cameras and tell the hidden director that she had enough of method acting and would like to leave now. That’s what she was reading all the time: scripts. Aha! That would explain so much. Revan had nearly bought it, except for that dumb accent and coif on her head. Too much, they had been, they had given it all away. 

And after this was over, he would want the actress’s address. Show up at her door with a grin and a bottle of champagne and her knowing immediately what he wanted. Do the hair that way? Oh, yes, and the accent too and keep the robes. Perhaps she might even go along with it, secretly charmed and who could resist the scary Sith Lord at their doorstep?

The jokes about his sanity had grown new teeth.

Revan had held his mind together for so many years now. The effort, the monstrous effort to not sink into the haze of that hazed nightmare he’d discovered, to embrace and never leave the holocrons, to be devoured wholly by the Star Forge. All of it for nothing. His Empire would defeat the Republic, sure enough, but would it last long enough, strong enough, to beat the true enemy that lurked and waited for the right moment to strike? How could it, without him there to guide the way?

His lip curled. What was he, though? Just a man after all. An arrogant fallen Jedi, his old Masters whispered. Gone insane from the war.  Not even that now, without the Force. A plaything for a woman that had tried to do what she thought was right, and spare him.

Even now, Bastila would say that she had done the right thing. Or, rather, her lips would mouth those words while her eyes went vacant. The light gone, and you could watch her struggle with her panic and dread as she felt every year, every year she would never experience, all she would miss and everything that had been done in exchange for ending him. 

How she wrestled and fought with all her beliefs and emotions. Her hubris and not-unearned pride, her curiosity, that she was a stickler for rules, she would not discuss her family out of fear (but he saw or sensed some, what was that, _misery?_ involved there) for what he might do to them. Some part was still sure they could be found, and that he might regain his empire and continue on.

…With her?

Someone chuckled, and then a flood opened. He could hear a crowd, the old crowd that occupied his head, laughing at him. Old Masters and friends, dead or that should be. Laughing at this new sharp turn. All Revan set his eyes on, he received and what did he desire now? ‘Her? _Really? Her?’_

The second general back at Revan’s left side. Good clean looks that drew in stares that were met with a oblivious look back. The only one that had left. What could be said between them, if the Exile found out? ‘…you realize I still remember when you tried to have me killed, right?’ Never mind. Useless and less entertaining as _always._

His first Master, then. Eyes blind but not unseeing. What words of wisdom could his finest Master have for him, on the subject of romance and wooing and destiny? ‘Don’t get her pregnant.’

Vrook, then, right. He was always certain, and frankly, it would be hilarious to see his reaction. ‘You want to do what with Padawan Shan? –no, stop _going into detail_ , Revan. Force. What went _wrong_ with you?’ It was always worth the effort it took to rattle Lamar.

Now, _Atris_ , yeah, let’s see that: ‘Are you claiming you are not planning to kill her? Then what— _no_. Stop telling me of this. And never put me back in your headspace again, Sith.’

Fair enough.

His followers, the assassins and Dark Jedi, throughout the years: ‘Can we kill her too?’

Malak would have been just as flabbergasted and disgusted. ‘A girl. Her? That stripling girl? The Jedi pest? That one there that chained you up? With that annoying accent and the stupid hair and minor gift with Battle Meditation. Useful enough, on our side, but Master, truly? You want to take as your apprentice and what, lover? _Her?’_

Why was everyone so unhelpful –why did Revan have no support in his own head of all places? Even from his old pupil.

Oh, _Force_ , her and his previous apprentice would slaughter each other in less than five minutes. Competing for him, only when she won, would turn her weapon on him—‘why didn’t you help me? Did you hear what he called me?’ Chase him through the halls of Korriban, slaughtering all she saw, ‘Revan, you get back here! You think I’ll forgive you for forgetting our anniversary!?’

Fun. Fun _ny_ , and insane. No, she would murder everyone there including himself. They would not make it to a month anniversary.  There was restraint in her, and it was necessary—for everyone _but_ her. Facing the troops atop Korriban’s crags and temples, announcing his return as he hefted Malak’s head by the ear as that was all he could get a grip on, and then behind him Bastila rolling her eyes before literally kicking him off the roof to fall to a grisly death. Very well did Darth Revan remember Korriban and the tombs built into the cliffs; his screams would echo for quite some time.

The voices that had been emptied from him mind had been replaced by a shadowy murkily blue-eyed figure in the corner of his eye to sneer at him.  

What was this like? A prodding memory of Malak, Squint, had once teasing him, after finding Revan perched over his favorite protocol droid after another endless night of trying to figure out what was wrong with his voice modulator, that the Knight needed to get a better hobby—or what about a boyfriend or girlfriend. Someone to run him ragged. Really. Immediately. Look at what he was doing. This explained so much.

Considering he’d been up to his elbow in grease and dried blood, Revan had been in no mood. “I have to be at this angle to each the core. Shut up!”

Years ago, when he had been full of certainty and disappointment, could not be wounded by stormy eyes refusing to look at him.

Someone to run him ragged. Godsdamnit, Alek.

Damn her.

Both of them.

Equally.

No, her more.

His apprentice had meant to kill him outright, not force him to suffer. This would have made that man once called Squint wince, if he’d been here, to have to listen to her ramble on more about self-control and things like _celibacy._ ‘Master, I apologize—I should have been more thorough in destroying your ship.’

Because of Bastila Shan, Revan had learned the dim frustration of not even being able to scratch his nose properly depending on if she had been mad enough to tighten the restraints. Learned to remember his old lessons of detachment when his legs when numb, when an itch developed in the middle of his back. Dull aches in his shoulders and arms no matter what he did. Having little defenses against her voice as she went on and on.

Bastila—Bastila _made him apologize_ just to receive the _pleasure of her company_.

Then stand there, glaring at him. Hands on her hips or crossed. Her profile to be taken in. The outside to be examined, because he couldn’t study the inside of her brain, what made her tick, without only confusing himself more. It was a dumb, stunted way of examining a person, Revan knew, but he had to learn whatever he could of this person who had saved and tied herself to him.

What little of her could be studied.

(All of her to be studied. Soon, soon.)

Hips. Curved figures. Womanly at the first glance but not _lush_ , as Malak would have studious declared. Not exotic enough for his friend’s taste either. Her chest not flat or particularly full. Though, _intriguing,_ the swell of her breasts in that suit. A young woman that was pretty, aesthetically pleasing enough, but not stunning or dazzling, the looks that would be on the Holonet, and so easily irked. Purple smudges under her eyes as she spent another hour arguing with him and some minor blemishes from the stress that were an amusing reminder of her age. Untrusting of compliments and her own abilities and desperate to overcompensate. Ambidextrous, he realized at some point, like him but definitely favoring the right hand while he the left. A Padawan that had some gift, nothing that Revan could even learn from her but only exploit if the situation had been different.

Though, it was a good talent, rare, and one she excelled at—more than once he’d lost ships to her, a few skirmishes and small battles. How much better would she be given better tutelage and with the full extent of the Force? There was that. That, and the brutal fact that when she bent over to retrieve a fallen datapad he had lost his train of conversation about the failings of the Jedi Code. Damned irony.    

Okay, he got it now.

If not exactly the _why_.

(he was a Darth, the greatest of all the Sith lords in so many years, untainted by self-pity that passed for some as mercy, and he would not be weakened by some _Padawan_ )

He did not want this. Tied to another. Exposed. Joined.

(he _refused_ )

Alarming, this lack of control. More than once, especially around the Star Forge, he might have lost himself in a rage that was not blinding, but allowed him to see _everything_ —albeit his vision would be red-veined.  But never when it came to _this_ did he give into instinct, not even when it was actually happening and he had another exposed to him. 

(he was Revan the Butcher and as such would not be consumed with ardor for some woman that wasn’t even a Knight, at the least he would have preferred it be for someone older who could teach him something)

Revan twisted others using attraction and dim lust as tools. Cerebral things for him, never squirming desperate thrusts. Yes, he got off, but what of it? For the sake of curiosity he had gone through those motions, but even that had been given up years ago. Always, he’d thought you kriffed someone for what you saw in them, what they gave you, but Bastila wasn’t…what did he see in her but another angry Jedi hanging on the Code by fingernails. Insisting that she would never fall, even while she looked ready to decapitate him with his own lightsaber.

There were times that Revan was sure if she gave him another lecture on his evil ways, he would just bash his own brains out.

‘Revan, are you listening?’

‘Oh, gods, if only I _couldn’t_!’

‘Such a comedian. If you weren’t too busy making jokes, you might have learned something from the Council and _wouldn’t be here_.’

Ignoring his earnest suffering. Eye rolling in legitimate agony. Bastila would have made a very scary Sith Lord. She would not have known when to quit. Not until all the life in the galaxy was snuffed out, and even then, she would have blamed others for that failing. Stomp her feet and huff. Then go on to destroy planets themselves. All that pressure building on a spring, and Revan did not want to be there when it went flying through the air—no, it wouldn’t be _his_ eye stabbed out if he could help it.

Her _voice_. So snotty. Unapologetic. That accent and the acid in it that could peel away durasteel. So lucky that no Padawan had been assigned to her. What a teacher she’d be. This was to whom went on delegation? No wonder the Republic was losing. Why would they assign her to work with people, when she was so controlling? Put her to programming droids. A strange joke that she had the power to _literally_ inspire or crush others. Worse than he’d ever been, Revan was sure. He at least killed the incompetent; Bastila wanted them to kill themselves to escape her. Who was the torturer here, anyway?

The smart thing would have been to keep guards around her, with gags for her, just haul her out only for Battle Meditation, then lock her back up. Padlocks and snarling kath hounds watching her and heat-seeking missiles and lasers surrounding her cage. Keep her in, not others _out_. Even Revan would have avoided dealing with this mess, no matter how much he’d enjoyed a challenge. This was no simple encounter, a test to score in, it was grinding pain in his ears, headaches blinding and no yelling at her ever shut her up.

_Kidnapped_ her? Kidnap _her_? Had at one point he’d actually considered that, even in passing? Snatching her up and turning Bastila to his side? Insanity. The dark side could make you lose your mind, truly. Perhaps he had been spending too much time with the Star Forge and his holocrons. Seriously contemplated laying a trap to snatch the new little Jedi that was all but holding up the Republic at this point?

The Republic and the Council _could have her._ Within a week of dealing with that fresh hell, Revan would have dropped her back at an Enclave, fought a war across enemy lines to return her. Personally dropped her off at their doors, her hogtied and gagged, dragged her through the hallowed halls until he found the heart. Throw her inside the chamber, point at the Council members, and howl, ‘ _You deal with this!_ ’

Bastila’s death would have been too kind to the Republic. Let her live and spend every moment with the enemy. Revan would even go out of his way to spare her, and then leave her for the True Sith that waited. Let those horrors meet with his own weapons.

She was, after all, the best defense the Republic possessed. 

You had to wonder, with her as its shield, how had the Republic not crumbled? The entire infrastructure soldiers falling down to the way she walked, so strident, and that way she stuck her nose up and lectured you when not ignoring you. He nearly respected her for all the pain she must have brought against his enemies, while simultaneously admiring and pitying all those that had served with her.

Revan understood the loyalty of the Republic soldiers towards her. The looks, they tricked you. You saw blue eyes, brown hair, and a full mouth, and were drawn stupidly in. Perhaps charmed for a second. Trusted her, as someone that good-looking and young could not be entirely awful, right? _Wrong._ But by then the trap had closed and you were too close, she was part of the military and had insinuated herself into your mission and then you were screwed. But at least those brave souls had arms and thus could commit suicide.

How many men and women had tried their luck with Bastila? It would be comforting to know Revan was not alone in this insanity. Let others sink with him into this tar pit that was admiring her nose. Just a lucky break that she had pleasantly clear-enough skin and that waist that asked for hands around it as her eyes and voice never did. Attractive, because of arbitrary standards, and that effect on her had made Bastila disdain and uninterested in compliments. Apparently. Given how she looked so disgusted when Revan would attempt to make a limp, but honest compliment. She went out of her way to avoid actual physical contact, keeping his gloves on and holding a rag against him when she had to touch his skin.

No nymphet, but a thin adult woman. Young but unafraid, all the more willing to prove herself due to that inexperience. Slightly blunt if delicate features and bronze-russet hair. All covered up by what clung but did not expose and was definitely not meant to be a temptation. Still, you wondered what was under and hidden under there. How she got it on. How you got it off. Muscled, sinewy, probably. A fighter. What did her arms look like—no, spare him this. Please.

But the Force did not listen to him anymore.

Instead Revan caught himself wondering if she purposely bit her lip just to distract him and why she would laugh only when she was nervous and what her legs would look like bared and how good her voice would finally sound when she shuddered, muttering his name as he cupped between her thighs, what Bastila had denied the truth of and refused to acknowledge even as her eyes wavered and wandered. 

All together it was a package that could be so entertaining. Pretty enough, but it was the rage and talent that were the bow on top.

So unlike _him_ who had never been particularly, needlessly, attractive like someone that could have been put on advertisements. And he had never been prone to mercy and kindness and useless speeches. He was Darth Revan, a title he had fashioned and created with his own hands. But who was the one tied up and being tortured?

If the Republic had a better mind for PR, than just telling of her wonderful Jedi skills, they should have just stuck a picture of her on recruitment posters, everyone would have signed up. How many of his soldiers would have gone over—and how many of those posters would fund the war effort? How many copies would he have bought?

…What?

_What was wrong with him?_

No, that was not a hypothetical question aimed at the Force. Revan truly did want an explanation from some higher power to explain this. Bring someone , Kae or Vander, here right this second; he wanted answers.

Replaced previous issues with whole new ones. But no, Revan didn’t want to plaster his ship with images of her. Admire from afar and make a…an _alter_ to her in his flagship. Worship what she could do. Turn others to her will, it _was_ impressive. As was the hair. The length of time she could continue to talk, even above him pleads for her to stop. That she made him scream in agony, as she read aloud from Jedi handbooks. So _this_ was torture from the other end. Imagine her turning all that passion towards the galaxy, alongside him? They could wreak so much terror in the galaxy together. Bastila didn’t even have to turn the dark side; he could just broadcast another lecture by her. Just keep earplugs in his pocket.

_Why_? Why _her_? Because—when he’d been ill she had cared for him?

...But that was so pathetic? So inane.

But she had done it. Revan would not lie. _Twice_ , Bastila had looked after him, even after he’d been horrible to her Order and then personally threatened her life. That only made it all the more wretched. Revan would not care for someone just because they had given him the smallest bit of pity that had only out of obligation and the desperate need for approval. 

At the least, he would rather it happen with someone else. Anyone else. One more mature and able to hold a decent conversation. An older person, if need be, one with normal hair and less issue of their own. Not a recent adult that had no idea less an idea of what to do in this situation than he did. Someone, at the least, that did not fumble over some mention of sex and immediately begin peeling through pages in her datapad to begin a new lecture on the dangerous of passion and remind them both that celibacy and duty was the more responsible thing a Force user could do. Then she would look up, all but flushed, and Revan would smile warmly, and Bastila would threaten to empty a bucket of cold water, and then there would be more banter.

Her arrogance and compassion and the temper just hardly held in check. A soft gentle voice that could become horrid when raised. The refusal to accept that one could just give up. The grasp on languages and that miraculous gift of battle meditation that could, with proper training, prove to be the deciding factor in the battles ahead. _Pigtails_.

_What had she done to him?_

Broken him. Smashed him down with one booted foot. Literally once, when Revan had attempted to trip her and she had caught him before he could her. Bastila shunned every attempt at even friendly _silence_. No such thing with her, only brooding silences and bitter guilt trips that would never work on a Sith Lord, damnit, they wouldn’t. Blood would soon spill from Revan’s eyes as the aneurism took him. Maybe she did deserve monuments. He was her Sith-on-a-leash, a pet she neglected and only sometimes fed and cared for.

For all his intellect, now he had to bargain with a Padawan over trying to get a sonic shower—and being _refused_.

Despise all of her, from the fall of her hair to the training leathers she wore. Her voice. Her. Guttural pain that he felt, _gugh_ , but he did hate her and adore her and admire her for breaking him as no one had been capable of before. ‘You win, now shut up!’ but she _didn’t._

To stop would have been an insult. This was her own way of showing respect, perhaps. Bastila knew better than to trust him wholly, and had to bombard him with what she could.

All passion and some brains that allowed distance she refused to seriously consider. She was half-right about everything and half sure of that fact but wholly terrified of being wrong. Running head first into a wall as hard as she could. Thoughtful but refusing to even contemplate (except oh she did yes, but would never say) possibly having issues with the Order.

He would swallow, and let his eyes become glazed. Reflect on how many ways a person could be broken. ‘You know where fear leads, yes?’

‘I am not afraid of you!’

When she did fall, Force help the galaxy. Her pupil. Her Master. Hopefully, Revan would be dead by then and spared the sight of her rampage and ruin. Poor Bastila was destined to burn herself out, Jedi or Sith. It was written all over her, doomed, too bright, too passionate to be either. So headstrong. Her Masters had failed to teach her proper restraint and distance. She might be better for it had it been tempered with time, and Bastila was still blind to that entire concept yet. 

Yet, for all her flaws, Bastila had saved him.

After hearing of his exploits, after knowing of his reputation and what deal he’d attempted to make with the Republic senators in exchange for the Jedi, after the blood they had shed fighting each other, still, Bastila had saved him.

Out of curiosity, duty, compassion.

Because that was what good Jedi did, they spared.

Bastila Shan was very young.

She still believed in those stories. Of brave Jedi and those that could be redeemed. Stop the bad Dark Jedi and win a prize and reach a certain plateau. Chase that carrot. Bastila wanted explanations, abuse from his overbearing Masters, a bad childhood before the Jedi to rescue poor little him, the followers and what he’d learned in the far reaches of space.

She wanted a narrative.

When Revan might be, just _Revan._

Kae had been a good teacher, if unorthodox, Zhar steady if irritatingly straightforward, even Vrook had been understandable, especially when one grew older and could view the Order with perspective. There had been few monsters in the Order, and even those had been pitiful, murderous fools soon crushed and with only the moderate contact with Revan. These external influences had not made him, not even the war, but had served as chances for him to emerge. Pretexts for the choices that were his own. No box to tick off and easily compartmentalize. The Jedi Order had meant for him to be a librarian. 

All the things he did, of his own hand, and through the Force that had led his way. He was. Just was. Not necessarily a result of the external, such as the war and his Masters.

Internal. The internal though.

Even while his raft went over the edge, falling down the waterfall to drown him. A, _what were they_ , popular on Taris…a _swoop_ bike, right— bouncing off the walls until it finally burst into flames and exploded.

Was it the collar? Did the lack of the Force free him from his previous problems, of what he can now call delusions and visions, auditory and visionary? No more half-memories to plague him. No more stares where he’d find himself nearly catatonic. He was not that person who dreamed of what hadn’t happened and what he hadn’t found in the Unknown Regions. Retreats into his thoughts and seeing himself talking and replaying conversations and events no longer happened so frequently. Gone was the pathological ambivalence and paranoia. Trapped and controlled by others, even as they did his bidding. People nothing more than mirrors, as he’d told Bastila. The cage had been lifted, and Revan did not have to step back to study his own thoughts and know they were his own.

No more.

Was it the Force that had created those, or rotten meat in his own head, misfiring synapsis that had been diminished after the blow to his skull? The connection to Bastila and the forceful intrusion of that. So clean his head was now. Not everything had to be analyzed to make sure it was his own, and thank the Force for allowing this.

He had lost everything, it seemed, but for his sanity.

For the first time since he was very young, he felt the chains around his limbs loosened. Hurried mind calmed and thoughts no longer a rush.

Just was.

Just was Revan, if not necessarily The Revanchist anymore. Saved, in some strange way, by the Padawan. In exchange for the galaxy’s future, Revan would no longer have to wear a mask with those he trusted (to some extent) to hide his odd grimaces or grins as he studied another map. Talking and plotting, with and to himself, about Malak and the minor pest, that Shan girl, and what to do about the Republic fleet.

Rather beautiful, the irony. 

She could debate with him, if unoriginally, and fight with such enthusiasm. Not the first Jedi to fight him, even that day, but she had been next in line and facing him with such bravado. A little like Malak, maybe, so eager, and like Kae so curious and headstrong. The Exiled General with the penchant for Bonds and caring for ‘the troops.’

Yet, Revan was not stupid or blind to similarities _they_ shared. Old stories on the Holonet comparing them, one rising star to another. How _alike_ they were, no matter how much Bastila would have denied such a thing. The certainty and stubbornness, skills and luck. Once there was a time that Revan, had he met a Dark Lord, would have given it his all to turn him back to the light side, complete with hours of speeches. Probably. _Theoretically_. Unsettling, either way, to have that turned back on him. His worst enemy was himself all along, turned feminine and smaller and all the more aggravatingly superior.

What had the Order learned from him, and how did that reflect on her? Too few years’ difference between them in order for the Jedi to learn better, and to teach in a different way besides bludgeoning? Or was that just _her_ that was so frustrating? The way she had his heart racing, out of violent rage that could not be expressed, her disdain for his attempts to avoid arguing, going out of his way to stay silent or to try to have a friendly conversation, the way she frustrated him quite possibly more than Alak or any Mando or his Master ever could have.

Well. Maybe not _Malak_.

Bastila would make a face at those comments. ‘You think you’re such a comforting presence?’

‘Let sit quietly then, and think about what we’ve learned.’

‘Let’s. Especially you.’

And Revan might hold it in for five seconds before he had to address that statement.

Revan _got it_. Reluctantly. Because of their circumstances, he did enjoy this back and forth. Having someone say no to him, diminish him, was a novelty he oddly could appreciate. Imagine her point of view, and understand better why he was refused to be let go to share her bed. All her fighting and the arguments could be perversely tempting. He wanted her, Force help him, to want _him_. Respect him. He was the Revanchist and had disobeyed the Council, known better than them even when he’d been Bastila’s age, and that alone deserved respect. Let alone the rest he’d accomplished. Kept the Sith on _their_ leaches. Formed an _Empire_. Who was this girl, practically still a teenager even, that claimed such responsibility over him?

Who was she, huh?

Nothing. A woman that had a gift that was wasted on her. A young person with too much on those small shoulders. The person that he depended on, and had wet dreams about, fine then, gods damn her and Malak and the entire galaxy.

That damned Bond.

Maybe it was the neural collar. Or the brain damage. Or the Bond. Bastila and her gift for inspiring, his lovely accursed muse. Or the brain damage.

It still didn’t _mean_ anything. Not if he didn’t let it. Another reason to free himself, and wreak vengeance.

Only, when Revan saw himself breaking these chains, so literally, he couldn’t necessarily picture himself leaping through this cramped cabin and hurting her as much as he wanted. It came and went, the homicidal urges. When she would hold a cup to his mouth or interrupt him, again, he wanted to send a wave of Force lightning at her. But even then, he didn’t want her to _die_ , just shut up and stop making that face. The images that came to him easiest were ones of them locked in some painfully adolescent pose of lust, even the violent ones. Or (and this was the _worst),_ just holding her. Simple contact that now seemed very wanted.

Bastila would flinch away from him, Revan knew, but that only made it all the more fun…When she begged, it would be even more satisfying and well-earned. All he needed was to escape these cuffs. Take off this neural collar, tuned just enough to keep him from the Force. Just do that and when he died, it might even be with some peace.

Though, in fact, it was getting harder and harder to see himself breaking out and the joy of that. If not easier to see Bastila finally taking this collar off and letting him free, that vision was more satisfying. Release him and listen to him, wanting to care what Revan wanted. Then what would follow was even more indignity on his part, no matter what Bastila might claim about wandering eyes and comments about her hostility, denial, and the increasing sexual tension. And it _was_ increasing…if only on his part. 

Hosted by his own petard, it seemed. For all his teasing previously, Revan hadn’t been serious. Just jabs to see her reaction, _only now_ …Revan did want her to join him. Together, and not just in that bed. That bed. Sometimes, he would simply dream of _sleeping_ in it, without her, just lie there stretched out as much as possible. Maybe chain her up and see how much she appreciated being at his mercy, squirming at his touch, bending down to touch her through her underwear, see how she liked that. Have your genital manipulated by someone making a face as though about to vomit. See that angry flustered face. Kiss her and have her kiss him back, to the point of delirium. _Smile_ at him. 

Something even worse lingered too, and Revan knew it. This thing with extra sharp teeth spread in a smile. What it informed him. What might be even worse than all of that, was _wanting_ to be hurt so. He might desire to be broken so by her, enjoy this emotion, and that was the end of the line for Darth Revan the Butcher.

Was this what others had felt, when they saw him or Alak, years ago when the war started and they were on the Holonet, gossiped about and studied? ‘Single and available’ and all that rot about what they fancied in a partner, and interviews given with such droll and winks as the hosts wondered aloud what Revan looked like. If it were a man behind that mask or a woman or a droid so programmed for charm. Often, Revan had all but run away and left his pupil to face that. Watch from a safe distance the questions about The Revanchist as Squint tried to be a good sport. ‘If they were no longer a part of the Order, did that mean…’ All the more appealing because of their vows and their important mission. What was held out of reach made it all the more tempting. Yes, yes.

Her collection of curves, graceful and balanced. Awful, mortifying and terrible the feelings she’d awakened. Beautiful. If she were a man, it would be the same, Bonds and crazed control issues, but she wasn’t. And there was something extra appealing of her acts of femininity, of pushing back stray hair, the soft features and her curves in profile. That she was pretty was irrelevant, but her appearance was not. Less and less he minded the sound of her voice even. He would not have been disgusted to touch her.

Certainly, Revan was less uncomfortable with her own hands on him.

With Bastila sleeping, Revan could just sigh freely. “Kriff.”

Before, his taunts had only been to embarrass her, one of the few cards left in his hand. Getting groped by an annoyed Jedi that hated him was novel enough to stir his attention, true enough. But when you wanted to purposely annoy her, just so she’d speak to you, there became a problem. Hating every word, then yelling at her when he got bored, coming up with on-the-fly insults and rants towards the Order, towards life, towards her and her stupid speeches. Her skin looked so soft.

Hang your head, Revan, you deserve it.

He wanted to screw her, violently, slowly, until they blew apart, until she was left crawling. Understand now why people engaged in such stupidity for the hope of a touch, a brief seizure. Worse (and here that fanged thing bit down), Revan _wanted_ to have some imitation of a partnership. Give and take.

No, no, he rejected that entire stance, the existence of some mocking imitation of friendship and longing. _Never._

He would not be that trite cliché, that villain so softened by feelings for another, he would not weaken, he would not wonder if she had any idea how her nose scrunched that certain way and how perfect that was. No, Revan would not let there be a lovesick adolescent pining for another’s attention. He would laugh with scorn and crush that growing sickness inside him as he had any other opponent he had ever faced.

I despise you. I reject your entire existence, Bastila Shan. You have failed, a failure of a Jedi, you could never convert me to the light side. What a pitiful life you have, _had_.  I won’t I deny it all I will not _care_ for you in anyway. What? Are you laughing? Stop smirking. Shan, listen to me, we are enemies and you can’t just appear in my head and confuse me like this. Look at me. _He would take her by the shoulders, and shake her._ Hated enemies. I control you here in this place. Stop…being you. Being so tempting. Stop. Oh, I can’t say any of this to you.

Even in my head, this is desperate.

What Revan really wanted to go back in time, and be captured be Mandalorians so he could at least later have the warm comforting memory of physical torture to remind himself of what the touch of another could do. But there were other similar avenues to explore. The things his hand had done. Awful hideous things, and they could never touch her because of that. Never find themselves on her thighs, spreading them. Her voice in his ears, could she say, ‘Revan, you are simply impossible. Is this your idea of teasing me?’ Dissolving into a terrible game of who could wait it out longer, and Revan _would lose._

He _never_ lost games. 

Or had a lover, exactly. Or went out of his way to want one.

Or kissed without some voice wondering about germs and the reduction of humanoid forms as bags of meat.

Another sigh, this one even more lovelorn. If HK were here, he could shoot Revan and put him out of his mercy.

But let Bastila live. Yes, that sounded right. Close his eyes and hold his head up after all. Let her go on to be eaten alive with guilt. Or at least not die by HK-47’s trigger. Revan should have the honor to kill her by hand, and the one to decide one way or another. After they had screwed, finally, and he grew bored with her nagging and _braids_ , that _ridiculous_ hair. What in the seven Corellian hells was with her hair?

“What are you grinning about?”

He didn’t jump. Revan the Butcher was never surprised. Except for lately. “Nothing.”

Krif. Should have something about her being fed alive to kath hounds.

Though she did look lovely so suspicious in the morning. _Krif._

“Really?”

Hair all falling about in curls that made his stomach twist unpainfully. Things went watery and refracted. The drugged quality of the collar, with or without the collar, Revan believed. It was his emotions that turned his brain to mush. Especially when she, say, tugged off his gloves to inspect the state of his wrists, and skin met skin. 

“No, I’m thinking about how deeply I’ve fallen in love with you.”

“Hilarious,” she sniffed and then stood up. Bastila was stretching, and it wasn’t sexual, it was stiff limbs, but still, _enthralling_.

Revan had to force himself to continue talking. “Does that mean you don’t like me?”

“I’m afraid you’re not my type, Revan.”

“Heartbroken.” His tongue traced over his teeth. “What is your type, out of curiosity?”

Bastila had been trying for humor, but she why not inquire about her taste? She was only human. And he’d seen the way she’d flinched when touching him far too intimately. She might very well be capable of crushes. 

Gods, Revan hoped she hadn’t been one of the giggling Padawans that had preferred sighing and gazing wistfully at _Alak_. All stupid broad shoulders and square-jawed Holonet charm. Steely looks from blue eyes as he looked into the cameras, we will do what is necessary. No, not Bastila, she would have found that as irritating as he had, if not more so. Not even amused or bemused by that reaction, not ever. Jedi did not have crushes, so neither would Bastila Shan. No crushes or secret fantasies for her. If she so much as looked at another for too long, Bastila would have slapped the thought out of her head. Or, more likely, slapped that person.

If only she would slap him.

And they all had thought it was the Exile that had been the broken one.

Her sigh was more whimsical than his own had been. “I’m tired of listening to you. Why don’t you try getting some more sleep?”

More staring at her legs, at her face, at her, no, oh no. Wet clothes still clinging to him. Revan’s mouth opened, and he was thankful for what came out. “Don’t you dare _ignore me. Who do you think you are?”_

Bastila didn’t even cringe. Didn’t even _blink._ “Do I have to get the gag?”

Growling would have been worse. As would insults. Instead, he had to let go of his emotions, twitching, and try to say something that wouldn’t dissolve with her covering her ears (the indignity of _that_ alone). There had been so many articles written about his speeches. Crowds formed to hear his words. “I am trying to have a conversation with you. Since I can’t exactly read a datapad now can I?”

He could not be left alone with his mind, distraction free.

There was that too, a thankful break from his spinning mind. While he had never suffered ‘delusions of grandeur’ as she called it, he had been growing increasingly paranoid. Revan could admit it. One did not rise as high as he had without wariness of others. Not hallucinations, exactly, but not-hallucinations. Neurons and synapsis engaged and his cortex to tell him exactly what he was witnessed, discarding irrelevance. Revan knew these things, medical and science.

Yet there had been things. Things that were, and could not be. Force visions, but twisted and strange.  No reality was objective, especially with these minor vessels they were trapped in, but that did not bring assurance. His brain working meat gone rotten. Faces beneath cowls and the hungry monsters that hid their faces, his Master, the Exile, traitors that had died by his hand turned faceless by time. _His Master._

But that had ended, those visions, on this ship. Erased. Revan did not fear waking up in a pool of sweat, trapped in his unmade bed like a child that had too many sweets. He might resent waking, but it might be better than the relief he’d felt to know that had been a dream. Relief that lasted until later, when he found himself mumbling and studying another screen, and seeing _her_ in the corner of his eye—not a dream, he was awake. The slippage of his mind.

Now, Revan was on top of that. Back to the mental strength he’d possessed when this war against the Republic began. Clear-headed and even. Everything was ruined, his plans destroyed thanks to his past lover and the woman that would not touch him, his Empire was set ablaze and undefended for the darkness to swallow whole. The Emperor had won after all, and there was no way to slip free of this noose tied around his neck as the chair was kick away. He was, very nearly, happy.

She thought he had lost his mind, half-believed the lies spread about him in regards to mental stability. That was why he grinned so, and made jokes about their deaths. But she was nearly halfway there, to seeing what he did.

No more Battle Meditation and acting as a pawn for the Republic and the Order, without a voice or say. The controlling urge to protect everyone, the scramble to undo or reduce harm. Hubris deserved but apologized for by those threatened. How well Revan knew of this path. Bastila too was prone to her own fits of narcissism, and bad dreams, restlessness. Perhaps his gift back to her. Things she did not speak of, even when Revan asked nicely.

Himself, he dreamed of ritual torture, crowds going mad as they usually did, hushed whispers of headsmen. Needles to piece the fleshy parts of his body, evisceration to witness the spillage the purple and gray of his intestines, ten gun salutes pointed to his head. Often set before a mirror, to witness exactly what was being done to you, another member of the audience.

“I can hold one up for you.”

“So long as I don’t have to be gagged.”

“You still can be. Then just blink twice if you want me to change the page.”

Making jokes at his expense. The gall. 

Bastila, you should be floored as I am, weakened and broken, honored to even have hurt me in such a way.

Revan swallowed what felt like an actual ball of blood clogged in his throat. “Either we drive each other further into insanity, or we find a way to get along. That is what you seemed to believe earlier. Or have you been broken of your idea that this is a peaceful vacation?”

Bastila was straightening the blankets. Soon the Jedi would get up to change and be all the more tantalizing for being hidden behind that door with Revan left with his imagination. “What would you like to discuss then?”

Find something, Revan. Some question! Now your brain decides to stop working!? “How old are you even?”

This insult, a child, a girl, still stung her. Too young to realize it was smarter to agree to others understatements and slip beneath radars. If she’d ever been a soldier, she might have known that. “How old are _you_?”

“Older than you. Wiser. A better conversationalist thus far.”

“Stop staring at me,” she snapped. Nearly crossing her chest, all primness. 

He hadn’t even been _staring_ at her.

Had he?

“Or what?”

“I’ll—I’ll blindfold you.”

“Blindfolds? What did the Order get up to after I left?”

That face was meant for sneers. A perfect Sith, just for the loveliness of her disdain. “Perhaps you shouldn’t have left so soon and you’d know?”

“I suppose so. Not before you and I became better acquainted, huh?”

What was this _bantering_? Were they…was this flirting? There was some odd back-and-forth that seemed to be a telltale sign of that.

Ah, hadn’t he once mocked Alak, when he’d come to Revan, asking for advice on women of all things, in an uncharacteristically elliptic way. He’d been so brusque, almost mocking and somewhat unnerved by Squint having such distractions that might affect their war effort. Revan had fallen back on the old Jedi standby on those matters. ‘Pupil, you have learned nothing from the years at the Enclave.’ Avoid romantic entanglements at all cost, for they lead to the dark side and such, rot that he’d been told unnecessarily. Cruel, cruel fate.

If he had the chance to speak to Malak, what could he ask now? ‘How do I make this miserable excuse of a Padawan agree to a sexual liaison with me before we commit murder/suicide?’

The reply of course would be: ‘Why aren’t you dead yet?’

In the old days though, in the old days, Alak might have said something different. Mocked each other and compared their failed attempts at relationships and who had chosen the worst woman to care about. Back before the jaw incident, and marks of the dark side, when they were considering ‘catches.’ Carefree bachelors in those years, before he developed nostalgia and this twilight of his life. Go back then and learn how to make floral arrangements for something besides his own amusement, and learn how to sing love songs for reasons besides annoying his companions. Maybe even ask the Exile for— hah, no, _no_.

Squint might have laughed and joked about her, of all people, Revan ‘fell’ for her. That annoying girl who was more uptight than him, that even as a child had scorned their popular study groups that formed around Revan? Did they compete over who knew more about Jedi lore, who gave more annoying speeches, who had more fans and the most disturbing letters from those groups?

“It really was a shame we miss the chance to know each other better. If only you were a little bit older. Imagine all the things we could have done under our Master’s eyes.”

Bastila shuddered violently, and Revan chose to ignore that with as much dignity as he could. “Yes, the tawdry groping under the tables. Make out in the library stacks and later deny it. Like my favorite general and a certain archivist back on Coruscant.”

The Jedi nearly did a double-take. “What?”

Before he’d even met that least favorite general and gone to war and met Bastila. A time to be savored. 

For the first time in a long stretch, Revan could wish to be back there, before the Mando war and the traps he’d agreed to that would enclose him sealed shut. Go back and redo, undo. Not the wars and battles and lives, but for the personal. He missed his friends and laughter, making fun of their acquaintances and their foolish affairs, homework and studied, and falling asleep with a book over his face as he lay there on Dantooine in the brown grass, and _peace_.

Still, one couldn’t move backwards as far as Revan had been able to discover yet. Thus he was left here, with Bastila, having to talk about Atris of all people. And using her as an example of how Jedi could stray and engage in physical relations. The Archivist most definitely not appreciate being brought up in this context. Or at all, probably.

“It was practically an open secret,” Revan continued. “Why do you think she was so angry at the Exile for leaving? At me, and all the other Jedi that left? I told you, everyone’s a prop for others.”

“She knew it was a waste,” Bastila protested. Positively scandalized. Maybe she did make a poster-perfect Jedi after all. How they loved gossip.

“Oh, Atris just didn’t like sharing. What, you think that you were the first Jedi to realize love and sex still happened. How old are you? You are old enough by now to have gotten drunk and made an ass of yourself by trying to grope a long time crush in the closet off the Right Wing of the male dormitory. I’m not sure whether to congratulate or pity that poor soul.”

That lucky bastard.

“Of course not.” Eyes all alight with curiosity, despite herself. “Did you? I’m sure you’ve made an ass of yourself plenty of time, but when you were drunk? Did you truly have feelings for someone, Revan?”

Did she? That was the question. Had she ever lingered around the Archive in hopes of spotting a certain Jedi? Had she ever found herself awkwardly standing there, making excuses for staying later and trying not to make a fool of herself? The uncomfortable excuses that so many adolescent Jedi would make.

Was there some hidden crush in her past? Surely Bastila wasn’t _that_ repressed. Who was to say someone else hadn’t gotten their hooks in her and made out during a drunken Yule holiday party? A certain person that made Bastila laugh in that uneasy nervous way of hers. Someone to recall in the dark moments, with a certain wistfulness. Stolen kisses when alone, a brief affair, someone else had known that mouth as he never had. That little bastard. 

Still, Revan knew better than to pull too many of those threads. If she had any idea how deep the insanity went, it could go very badly. “That’s just projection. I never said I did that.”

Bastila was _smiling_ at him, and he despised her anew, himself as well, his fingers for going so numb and not because of the lack of circulation. “Are we gossiping, Revan?”

Now he was distracted by the shape of a Padawan’s chin. It was her own feelings, being filtered back through him. Her anxieties and wants and desires; she had the same curiosity and attractions that most other being possessed. A human woman that had been raised on the necessity for no attachments and now feared the width of all she’d never experience. 

But why did it affect him so much?

Why had he not minded it?

(why had he started it then, if it were so simple, if it had just been a joke to unnerve her when she could not be so easily rattled and he knew _that_ )

Did it matter where it came from? How could he even say that?

Her stare pinned him—her eyes like silver leaves of moonlight on a river—oh, he was kriffed, there was _nothing_ more pathetic than someone lovesick and trying for poetry, Revan knew. Because he’d mocked others for such things.

“Perhaps we are. And we’ve never had a more pleasant conversation. Look at you, almost laughing without taking out the hair-shirt. I like to think that’s my influence.”

“I haven’t taken care of someone like this.”

“There’s a _lot_ you haven’t done.”

The Jedi had come far enough to understand what a leer was.

She even stared back at him, not _considering_ , but at least not flinching back. It had only lasted a delightful second, and he knew better, he did. Oh, _now_ the Jedi learned to make jokes, but still, this might be a _start_. Gods, Bastila really had broken him.

“Perhaps,” she said, dead-pan. “If you shaved.”

“Or another week of slow dehydration and hunger on your part?”

“Even _delirious_ from hungry I would still know how disgusting a man you are, Revan.”

Once, woman and men had thrown themselves before him just to see him sneer at their pathetic forms. Magazine articles in datapads had been dedicated to the supposed attractive face that his mask held. All about his sex life. If he had one. If he even were a man or a woman or a machine.

He had stopped the Mandalorians, he recited again. Yes, that had been him. He had avenged the Cathars. He had freed slaves. He had done what so many others before could never accomplish. He had discovered a long dead civilization and held the power to change the galaxy in his hands. The finest Jedi of his generation. The last and strongest in a long line of Sith.

Bastila turned her nose up at him, literally, and walked away from him, and it drove Revan up the wall. Especially when she was getting dressed, ignoring him entirely, and he was forced to imagine her tugging on that tight training suit that was such a lesson in enticement despite or because of how little skin it showed. Bastila was entirely blind to this, and that made it all the more aggravating in its own way.

She didn’t deserve his—whatever the hell this was. Earnest attractive and lust. To cause him to fantasies about her bending to pull up her trousers from around her ankles, wiggling into them, to wonder how she pulled that shirt on. This trust to not be stabbed in the back. Did she have any idea how lucky she was, even now, to have been so connected to a Sith Lord that had been within inches of destroyed the Republic? Just some Padawan, so righteous, like the others so full of themselves they could shit limbs. Annoying, nagging, a constant dragging weight on him, an anchor, a wretched excuse for a Jedi though she of course would refuse to even listen to his insults therefore proving his point.

_‘You don’t deserve me!’_ He could fling in her direction.

Already hear her mocking laughter. _‘No, I don’t.’_

When she came back, Revan momentarily studied what might be discreet clasps, and understood he had become that foolish Senator or diplomat that threw away everything in the stupidest way for their idiotic affairs.

She had been thinking about him in there. Gnawing at something and sorting her arguments out. “No wonder you fell considering how obsessed you are about— _that.”_

The things he wanted to do to someone that couldn’t even describe any sexual activity but in the most oblique way. The Force had a sick sense of humor. Again, Revan saw himself on a raft, powerless, tied up and watching the end of the river approach coming closer until over he went, screaming.

“Our mutual attraction is definitely a weakness.”

“I knew that already.” The Padawan looked far from pleased, but Revan was still put off. Though uplifted, sickeningly, by her minor admission that would be dashed in seconds. So, this is what it meant to have feelings for someone so desperate you would _want_ to stepped on by them. “—Not that it’s _mutual_. Why would you even say such a thing? Obviously it’s one-sided. If that. You cannot have those sorts of feelings. A blessing, really. And neither could I ever return such a feeling, even if you _weren’t_ a Sith Lord. You just enjoy making me uncomfortable, don’t you, Revan?”

Getting herself all worked up. Out of kindness she didn’t even believe he was capable of, Revan stopped her. Though, even in this it was selfish considering he couldn’t deal with a speech on proper Jedi detachment and ideals concerning attraction. “Oh, shut up. I’ve done far more in terms of sexual activity than you could ever dream of in your most repressed dream.”

All those things were nothing now.

This entire conversation was growing thin.

And _painful._

For him.

This was the last person he would ever see, and she was an obnoxious, lovely, passionate, haughty Jedi Padawan.

No matter how Bastila might make that face, that one right there, Revan was the one truly suffering.

If they did get out of this mess, what would follow? Take her to Malachor, for what? To break her? He wanted to _hold her hand_. If anything, he would take her there for a picnic and to see her have to fight some of the misshaped monsters that stalked that place. Set her loose there unarmed, for sport, he would chase her down with only his lightsaber, maybe nothing else, including clothes, _krif_ —no, just no. But when he caught her, and beat her, had her submitting to him…okay, that one was the Echanis’ fault. Afflict remarkable unspeakable agony on her? _How?_ Even if Revan put a gag in her mouth, it would be miserable because of her stares, so angry, no, what if they turned to _begging_? _Physically_ torture her? With this connection they shared? Revan was of the sadist type, he admitted freely, not a masochist.

His lover, mate, girlfriend, strapped to an interrogation table.

No, _worse_ , his lover, mate, girlfriend, strapping him to an interrogation table.

With his _permission_.

Because he trusted her. Trusted, and could not see her pleading with him to stop hurting her. Not-quite-blue eyes swimming with tears, never, not because of him, please. Nuzzle and comfort, ah, that urge burned. The ability to hurt her, and completely averse to doing so. This was what they warned you about after you’d gone to the dark side. Mercy, he was being _merciful._ Well, not now, but in the future, if he was let out of these constraints, Revan would not snap her neck like she deserved. No, he would rather, well, rather ask her out for what passed for dinner at this point.

‘No, thank you.’

‘—I could kill you now!’

‘Then why don’t you? I’d rather die than ever touch you, Darth Revan!’

‘…please?’

Revan didn’t expect that, none of it, not from this woman that seemed to have made some pact to always take everything concerning herself seriously—but he _wanted_ it, despite himself. Look at her. What he couldn’t have.

The Hell of waking up like this, the howling dread in him, the animal stink of him under stress that he’d never suffered through so much. Because of her.

“ _And_? Are you listening? Is that why you stare at me and make those comments? Sexual addiction?”

Revan made himself laugh. “That is not entirely accurate—I am not a neurotic compulsive like you. It’s just another weapon to use. I could go without that act if I could but certain it is necessary. If only to have someone lower their guards. Fools that confuse a feeling with the person causing it. I’m not afraid of it like you are. Why are we discussing this? Shouldn’t you be embarrassed and on a feinting couch?”

…what was he even going on about? Had he been _babbling?_ That concussion was to blame for this. His brain was swelling, and only his brain.

“I can say things back at you, Revan. You are the one exposed and vulnerable.”

“Like I said, I’m not afraid of sex. You want to tell me how absolutely devilish I am, devastatingly handsome? How I’ve made you feel like you’ve never felt before? I’m like no man you’ve met before, right? Of course I’m not.”

Though a part did flinch at her taking out the bucket, at the self-consciousness that rose when she looked at him in the remnant of his infamous armor, and the sudden wish that he _could_ shave. His patchy upper lip could not be helping him in any way. Damn, but he could all but hear the old taunts from his past friends during a long stretch he was unable to attend to his appearance properly. Bumfluff.

Bastila was, after all, the Hope of the Republic, and in possession an adorable frown and, frankly, _gorgeous_ clouded irises that made him understand why someone used such adjectives in describing something as mundane as eye color. Someone he had hoped to meet for very long. Letting himself down right now, his reputation in tatters before a woman he hoped to turn to his side and full potential unleashed against his enemies. 

Once, Revan had an entire armada, an army, at his beck and call. All the strength of the Force, the ability to bend all he encountered to his will. He might have broken her in every way, and that knowledge they shared made this all the more painful.  All the while, still, they drifted unmoored and _still_ Bastila Shan was uninterested in letting loose her captive.

From the jagged edges of Malachor and the red crags of Korriban, his true empire that was without the trappings of civilization, the fleets at his command that outnumbered the Republic, and now here. Armies had flinched at the sound of his voice, and entire planets had caved beneath the weight of him. His hands had wrapped around systems’ necks, and he would have replaced the Republic with his own Empire. Revan the Conqueror. Revan the Butcher.

Revan the Meek. Revan the Defeated.  Revan the Smitten.

And he was, he was.

If he ever managed to find his way back to his empire, could he even expect any Sith to follow him? Anyone to still respect him? Betrayed by Malak, spared by a Jedi, a _Padawan._ Worse than that even, Revan didn’t feel quite the same man that had found the holocrons, beaten the Mandalorians, found the maps, that had faced that terror in the darkness. His very self felt a shadow of what he’d been not long ago. 

He felt…

Bastila was turning away, finding her own separate sane self.

At least she didn’t know. Though sometimes she woke startled and uncomfortable, and Revan would know she had dreamed of him. Revan could also see the curiosity she denied, and she must pick up his own emotions in turn; a Bond might allow certain unwanted things to be shared, including memories. But, still, Bastila didn’t know the full extent of how he felt. Not yet.

He saw the pale soft throat, her disgust, remembered the careful way she held a mug of water to his lips, the pitch to her voice when she was excited. The light and dark of her eyes.

“What insane thoughts are going through your mind now?” She asked, all wariness in the galaxy apparent on her young face.

“Torture.”

“Is _that_ why you look so happy?”

 

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which our two intrepid heroes drag each other down into the pit of insanity and decide to stay down there for awhile.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologize beforehand for the length of this, and the lengthy weight between chapters.
> 
> Thanks again for the comments and kudos and favorites, and just for reading through all of this.

 

  
_“I did not mean to imply you were repulsive in any sense of the word.”_  
—  **Bastila Shan**  
  
 _“I didn’t say I liked it. I said it fascinated me. There is a great difference.”_   
— **Oscar Wilde** , adapted from The Picture of Dorian Gray  
  


* * *

No, no, she didn't want to have banter with him. Not again. Just sit here and listen and ignore his unwanted, blatant flirting, as though to ignore and reduce her. An object to him. His own way of gaining control over the situation. Bastila also didn't like the sudden shiftiness to his eyes, and his attempts at changing the subject.

Somehow, Revan found a way of spoiling victories, even minor ones.

"You want to hear about how I came to this wonderful place? With you tying me up and spoon feeding me? Are you looking for a sad story? An abusive home environment?" The muscles in his face fell, and she could see something _behind_ them. "I joined too young to remember my parents. I am the perfect Jedi specimen. Studied under their microscope before I could walk. Reciting the Jedi Code before I could read."

"Without learning humility."

"It's true. I have a very realistic and healthy sense of self. That's what happens when everyone tells you constantly that you're the future of the Jedi and that the entire Republic depends on you."

"Is that your way of being subtle? We're nothing alike."

"Alright," Revan sniffed. "You are prettier."

"You soiled everything the Order stands for."

"Yes, and I'm winning. What does that say?"

"Nothing. Even if you claim some victory, it will be short-lived. There will always be light. Your Empire will end, in time."

"Then why fight at all? Why not let the next generation clean up?"

"How could anyone stand by—"

"And watch the galaxy burn? Ask your Council."

They both knew how flawed that premise was, but Bastila let it go. For now. Would even secede the point, if that's what Revan needed to . Let it go. "As you say, Revan."

Alive, he looked at this moment. Not the man that had been dragged, literally from his dying ship by a Jedi that had kept him alive. "They fight only now because I'm their mistake. Because I personally target them, as deserved. Only now are willing to go to war."

"You're saying they're hypocrites?"

"And liars and fools. They stumble around in the darkness and claim everyone else is blind."

"That's why you targeted the Order?"

She remembered him on the Holonet, covered and absurd and frightening. The news that broke, his deal made to the Senators where he promised to spare all Republic citizens in exchange for the Jedi, for all the military support left, for all the power he could grasp.

"You want to know why I seek to destroy the Order?" He looked at her with that malicious, satisfied stare. "Did they ever wonder what it was like on the Outer Rim, fighting the Mandos? At least now they know."

Bastila heard her Master whisper of his corruption. That all he came in contact with were ruined and twisted. Of all the Jedi he had murdered and turned.

Do you think he won't do that to you, if given the chance?

"The High Council believed only in immediate self-defense. Not in protecting others, in saving worlds and innocent lives." How he sneered. "This was the only way for them to draw them out."

"But why? Why harm the Order in the first place?"

How did one turn on all they had known? How did you walk away from the closest thing you'd had to a family? More than that, how could one reject and hate and kill their family? In a quick flash, she saw Helena Shan, that pale narrow face so like her own, the nose and forehead and color of her eyes. Could one hate a parent that much? Could a parent earn that much hatred from their own children?

"To teach them a lesson. To prepare the Republic. Or maybe the real reason is, its fun. Like I said."

Revan all but beamed. But she knew better than to believe and trust his sudden amusement.

"But this isn't about that. This is about you trying to save me so you can feel less bad when you give in. it won't be you falling to me level, it will be you raising me to yours. So then it'll be okay if you slip because at least it won't be with a murderous Sith Lord that stands for all you hate. We'll be _romanti_ c, star-crossed lovers, and not two desperate people. The Sith and the Jedi. King and Queen of their respective kingdoms.

"Don't worry; I won't judge you when we have sex. Too bad you left my mask behind. Why not go all the way?"

She tried not to let her back stiffen, to let her gaze flicker.

' _Star-cross lovers.'_ Had he actually said that? To her? About _them_? After professing his hate for the Jedi and wish for their destruction?

Bastila had to rediscover her ability to speak. Speak, and calmly not begin shrieking at him or just making a face and sitting in disgusted silence that only fed into Revan's behavior. "I don't hate. Especially not like you do. Even your first master you have such contempt for. Do you miss her?"

"Do you?"

"I never knew Kae."

He was unamused. "That's no answer. Do you miss your Masters? They are your family, aren't they. Or do is there someone else you miss? What of your mother, Padawan."

"What makes you think—"

"It doesn't matter. This is only a distraction. Besides, you don't care about the others you left behind."

"Of course I do."

Bastila did miss her father. Her homeworld, of the seas and endless grass that stretched from their home into the sandy beaches. The ruins that she had seen through more holos than through firsthand experience, but she had been sure as a girl that she would explore every single one. Endless waiting by the door, and her mother's exasperation when she tracked mud into the house. She didn't know if any of her family still lived.

But Revan let that topic slip past to focus on his own thoughts. "It's always about ourselves. The vanity of consciousness. I'm just a prop. Everyone is to everyone else. You can't see outside your own perspective."

Despite his sullen glazed expression, the Padawan could manage a smile. "Doesn't that make it all the more poignant that we reach out despite that?"

Hair fell across his forehead. "Only so it makes yourself feel better. Don't act like you're doing me any favors."

"You were so much better off on that ship that your apprentice was firing upon?"

"Yes."

"You speak about me falling and downplay any effect I may have on you. Anything I _do_ is because of you apparently. Yet you call Malak and Master Kae narcissists for asking why they feel guilt."

"What could have made you believe that?" Feeling more and more like a psychoanalyst, and on behalf of the books on that subject that she hadn't read out of wariness, Bastila had to ask, "Tell me about your mother."

"The one that abandoned me? Which one? I know this game and it bored me before I had built my first lightsaber. Blame the environment and nature if you want an answer as to why I turned to the dark side."

"You seem to act like it can all be reduced to animal urges," she insisted. "That people are prey to others."

"Others yes, not me."

"Above everything still? Yet you said Master Kae _abandoned_ you."

"Oh, just a slip of the tongue." Revan smiled.

"Left you then? In the most permanent way."

"She left. Died? No, not her. She cannot, not until she faces me again and tells me all I've done wrong and how I can correct it. You see, I failed her and nothing is more inexcusable than that."

No wonder Revan had gone mad, if that's how he saw his previous Master.

Her own…no, she didn't want to think about her own Master.

Bastila leaned forward. "A lot of emphasis on the word 'she' in the beginning of that rant. As though sure to point out you did not leave her."

"You're not half as amusing as you think. This entire topic bores me. Go touch yourself in the bathroom some more. That at least is amusing."

Shameful heat rose to her face and she knew her back was suddenly straight. She wanted to strangle him then, for the way he looked from her. No—no, she would restrain herself from even commenting. There was a victory in this, yes a part could be _cheered_ , glad of his discomfort, and she disliked that part of herself. Yes, she had a weapon to use against Revan, but something as petty as that was not the Jedi way. "You're like a spurned ex. How disturbing. With mother issues. Of course. Why didn't anyone ever mention that when they talked about all your flaws?"

"What?"

"You say you hate her, and yet can't stop talking about her. Your obsession with what she did to you and how she felt."

"Are you saying I'm a bad date?" He was being obvious and rude again. "Maybe what will fix me right up is a good woman, huh."

"I pity anyone you have any romantic involvement with."

"Explains a lot about you."

Revan had no right to turn his head, shoulders unbowed, looking like the great strategist and war leader. As though waiting for someone to take his picture, or to complete a picture of his profile or to laugh at his awful remarks. Like he had an audience. Like he were still a Jedi Knight, so brave and bold for leaving the Order to fight and save the Republic. Did he still believe he was that man, or did he accept that he'd left that part of himself behind for his Sith Empire?

She imagined him being her Master. Years ago, when she'd first become a Padawan. Doing to her what he'd done to Malak, it would be her leading the Sith and no longer able to chew. Or if he hadn't lost his mind fighting in the war, and maybe, if she'd been there, maybe she could have pulled him back. One of the Jedi to die on Malachor. Meeting outside the Order, in the mess hall after he'd cut in line before her and took the last of the rolls.

If they had been closer in age. Force, what a thought of being friends with such a _cretin_. Trained by him? How awful an idea that would have been. _What he'd done to Malak,_ Force forbid. He would have taken everything good, twisted her talent for his own goals, broken her.

And Bastila _had_ considered joining him, years ago. Briefly. A young apprentices' dream of running off to do something heroic and brave, win the respect of the entire Republic. Let him never know of that fact. Or that she was supposed to have remained behind the older Jedi of the strike team, to hang back and not, never, find herself face-to-face with Revan. Or of her overenthusiastic responses when first becoming a Jedi. Her first time leaving the Temple, with her Master. The time she had left without her Master. All eagerness and sure that she would right whatever wrong crossed her path. So proud when joining the Republic on the front lines. Bristling with every doubtful stare given, and refusing to second guess herself, all arrogance to hide her fear of losing, failing, of being that stupid young Padawan that was over her head. The one that would rather refuse help even if it meant breaking something such as her first lightsaber that literally fallen to pieces during one training session.

If he knew of that, all the youthful follies, Revan would have laughed himself sick, and Bastila was tired of his mocking.

Disturbing, that he'd integrated himself so deeply into her life. Inside her head, a place, the only place Bastila could escape from him and even that was slipping away. Yet that was all she had, besides the refresher. There she could recite the Code and write in her journal as she examined her life and where it had led, the mistakes. The Test that bordered Padawans from apprentices, and how hard that had been for her. In there, free to examine her thoughts and try to ignore his yells, 'did you slip and crack your head? Now can I unleash my fiendish plots, finally?' It always worked.

Only to irritate her. That was all he had left at this stage, and it was almost pitiful. If she were not trapped here with him, Bastila might have found some sympathy for Revan.

As it was, she found a new level of concentration and ability to focus her mind elsewhere.

This could all be a lesson. A lesson in humility and knowledge of how one could concentrate on what wasn't grating and painful. The ability to look beyond the immediate, which Bastila had always had a problem with. From this, she could be a better person, a wiser Jedi, stronger and possessing the gift to let the physical go as the Masters did. Perhaps she would learn to be calm after having to listen to Revan ask if she'd ever had a sexual partner before, how did it take for her to do her hair, would she like to know what else he was a 'master' at? Perhaps this was what it meant to be tortured.

If he'd heard that, Revan would have sneered. 'Of course you think this is torture. You've never felt real pain before.'

Her jaw clenched before she could stop any reaction manifesting itself physically.

Just his name, imaging having to listen to voice could bother her. It led to all Jedi calm disappearing, to finding herself with clenched fists and the cowardly desire to run away from him. It led to staring at him, and having to re-acquaint herself with his appearance.

Revan needed a shave. Several showers. A haircut. Completely new clothes. For that matter, how about becoming a new person entirely. In the morning, particularly then, it was unpleasant to have to look at him and listen to his complaints about the quality of tea, the back pain she could do nothing to help with, his little smarting remarks about what an awful guardians she was. That, and just having to meet his eyes, see the veins in the his temples, the dimple set in his chin and his grotesque smirks. Though, for all the rest of his ruined face, he did have long eyelashes. Black. Bastila turned away quickly.

He noticed, he always noticed.

Then stared back as—as no one else had before. None looked at her like Revan did.

That flatness to his stare. He didn't seem to blink as much as other people needed to. Unnerving, just as he wanted. "I do know something that would pass the time. Are there any cards around?"

"What, you want to play pazaak?"

"Only if we play using Nar Shadaa rules."

"What's that—or do I want to know?"

"You want to know."

She huffed and was glad again for Revan being chained up.

"Or we can find another way we can pass the time." As awful as everything else about Revan was, his grating smirks were the worst. Somehow, they managed to be the worst. It was a unique talent.

This time, Bastila picked up on his meaning quickly. "No, thank you. Now would you please stop staring at me?"

"Make me."

For a moment, she nearly ripped off another piece from his robe to use as a blindfold. But then something simpler came to her. Her Master would have been disappointed, as though it were all she had taken from the lessons (and it wasn't), but it would help her as much as any of the others. Finally, righteously, Bastila dumped a clean bucket of cold water onto him.

His sputters were so much more pleasant than what usually came from that mouth. "That wasn't the same bucket, was it?"

She would ignore him next time. Bastila swore it.

Let another hour go by in silence—another hour and another hour to be passed. Hurdles to climb over and fall down. They could leave you bleeding and stunned and as you lied there. But the Jedi and Sith would continue on and on.

Meditate together, oddly intimate to focus on their own breathing and having to hear the other's. "How is it possible you _breathe_ annoyingly?"

She'd exhaled. "Because you're insane."

Pacing, only to stop when he outstretched a leg to trip her up. Laugh like the idiotic sadistic child he was, giggling at her limp afterward and the way she had to visibly restrain herself from kicking him in the face. "I have no other way of entertaining myself, Bastila."

True enough. But still intolerable.

Picking at each other, unable to help it, compulsive short arguments they seemed unable to control, brush fires of hostility. Even commenting on each other's accent, when the conversation lulled. "Yours is so forced."

"It is not. I grew up on Coruscant. You're the one with the weak imitation of a Core World accents. Where are you from, anyway?"

And Bastila nearly told him, until common sense kicked in.

She knew his every expression, Bastila believed. Teasing sorrow and mocking laughter and surly displeasure and that glare that meant her words had reached her target after all. The certain way he lit up when something occurred to him. His eyes would nearly literally glow when he was properly amused rather than just irritating her for the sake of doing so. Revan had the darkest voice, of black tea and crisp mornings in the Archive, orders over a speaker that immediately got a soldier up. He hadn't needed that voice modifier.

More things to ignore.

Especially when one was trying to work out a way to save them both with limited tools.

Bastila just wished she could have one droid here, an astromech that worked even half-right and could fix this. Every lesson on spacefighters was ingrained, but so few dealt with repairs. Still, Bastila would do her best. All the while dismissing his looks when she had to crawl around, and his laughter and comments. His repulsive remarks. She fumbled with wires and ignored his insistence about the red cord, and other advice.

Later, fingers smarting from the soldier tools, she would have to pay attention to him again.

At him with a wet rag. Cold precious water to try and wipe some of that dried blood on him. Gloves and gauntlets and other armor removed as little as possible. Shift aside where possible. There were still things Bastila would rather not see if she could help it. "Hands." Clean under his nails.

"Can I tell you—"

"No."

"That I like—"

" _No."_

"Your hands on—"

"I will stop!"

He leaned far too close to her. "—On me like this? Bastila? Have you—have you ever felt this way towards anyone? Even the urge to _want_ to feel attracted to another?"

"No. And given your state, I am grateful for that fact."

Revan wanted to present his way as a viable alternative to the Jedi. That he was witty and urbane, sophisticated. The clever, brilliant Force user that secretly had all the answers.

All of this failed completely and utterly with just one glance.

Those marks left on him, the state of his wrists, his bloody nose and the rambling pattern of his speech… yes, Bastila definitely wanted to join his side. Who _wouldn't_? With all it offered: a long pattern of betrayal and bloodshed, ruin and murder, to be ended finally be death at the hands of one you trusted. To be despised by all. No care for another, only a lonely crawl towards more power. Passion, he spoke of, but it was one twisted and rotten, without any affection or regard.

Both were well aware, especially after the reveal of how close he and Malak had been. So, why did he even persist with trying to lure her into a partnership? Why go about search for freedom through a _romance with her_? Did Revan truly believe she was that stupid? Yet he arched his back and smirked. 'We deserve each other.'

What was she even to say, besides another refusal? Besides, well, look at him, flushed with anger while Revan stared back at her, amused. Replying to him sapped so much energy. "What, do you expect me to actually listen you? That I would think for even a second we might be lovers, Revan?"

Did he think her so stupid that she might unchain him because of how he commented on how much he liked her—her smile? And other things, things that Bastila wouldn't think about or let unsettle her. She resented the shape of her face, her body, all the things that people judged her on and their expectations for a young woman. The air smelled like him, of smoke and blood, and this soap that wasn't strong enough.

"No. You are too stubborn. And I am a monster." A crooked smirk on his face to charm her.

Bastila was not fooled; he _was_ a beast.

A strange beast though. One she was still trying to study, even as he chided her for doing so.

There had to be more to him than crude remarks and nihilism and anger. Revan could deny and hide his true feelings, but he had been a Jedi and a good one. And the man that had left to save others could not be so nihilistic. If he did not care, he wouldn't have gone out of his way to protect them, from the real and imagined. He didn't believe he believed in half of what he said. They were a cover to deny that he had fallen so far.

Let him fall back on his lies all he wanted, Bastila would call them all out. Smash the mirrors that, even bared, he set and hid behind. Bastila was less and less embarrassed to see him like this. Half-stripped, Revan looked wholly human. Thin, trim, compact. Wounded even. All the marks all the more impressive, and despite herself, she did want to know the history of them. Had he gotten this burn across his heart fighting a Jedi, or some mysterious Sith that had taught him all he knew, was this light pink scar across his stomach from the supposed battle with Malak where his apprentice had lost his jaw?

"Why did you never heal these properly?"

"They are mementos," he said rather grandly.

This one here looked across his ribs older than the rest, jagged. "Where did you get that wound?"

"From the Mandalore." Revan studied it, the best he could. "He kicked me."

She nearly laughed, and dipped the rag into the bucket. "Truly?"

"Would I lie? It was when we had finally tracked him down. Right to the heart of the Mandalorian. They had suffered badly at the latest fight, and this was on desperate move to defeat us. The Mandos thought that without me, the Republic wouldn't be able to finish them off after all. It might have worked, even.

"One of us had already died. I myself was unharmed but my lightsaber had been destroyed and I had to borrow Malak's. He had been injured, of course. It wasn't the first time my apprentice failed in defeating him either. That should have been a sign, perhaps. But having an apprentice that can learn nothing from you seems like another sort of failure." The Sith looked at the walls, gaze flickering as he remember some event from years past.

"You should have been there."

"Me?"

"Yes. We could have made the galaxy burn."

Remember what he is.

"You really could have been magnificent." Yellow-topaz met her own sane ones. They were, she realized, nearly the golden color of her lightsaber.

Bastila would not allow herself to wonder what he imagined. His tool. A puppet to his commands as he forced her to use her ability against the Republic. Another thing he wanted from her—no, she wouldn't think about that either.

The rag went lightly over his skin, still discolored from bruises. He never winced, and she was disappointed for once when he grew silent.

Her mission had been to collect Revan, and learn all she could from him. After winning the war, fighting the Mandalore, that was when he and all those ships had gone missing. Was it possible the Mandalorians had spoken of something they had found, some way of building ships so quickly? Now of all times, he'd rather not go on about his accomplishments. No matter how she probed while watching him physically squirm as she scrubbed at his flat, bare stomach. But Revan remained stubbornly close-mouthed.

Or, rather, single-minded. "How thorough are you going to be?"

Which ended whatever discussion they might have had—for which perhaps she should be thankful.

With him, it was never one-sided. For every question, she had a feeling he got a thorough answer of his own.

Still, Bastila could hardly stand his comments. She'd heard of him only through reputation, but none of those rumors involved him being a flirt. Lecher. A man that enjoyed sexually harassing Jedi, and insinuating that they wasn't as chaste as they claimed to be.

Even insisted that she even liked seeing a Sith Lord depending on her, and was so eager for this chance to probe him for all his secrets. "It's no wonder you enjoy doing this."

She bit her tongue. Until she tasted blood.

"You do need me."

A few words, and he could dig into her skin so easily. Bastila reminded herself that he used to torture people, that he knew all the tricks, that he had been a master at interrogations and diplomacy.

She should have been calmer. Instead of glaring at him, feeling hair falling into her face.

Revan tugged at the restraints and studied the ceiling. "After all, you wouldn't be half the Jedi you are if it weren't for me."

" _Excuse me_?"

What? Just… _what?_

"Without me, do you think you would be able to explore your powers? That the Jedi Council would let you go into the galaxy?"

Anger had no place here. This is no passion, there is peace. Let it go. Let him dribble nonsense. Maybe it was good that he ignored how useful he might be to the Republic alive. She would treat him as nothing more than an annoyance, one that could never affect her more than momentarily. Bastila would teach him that he would no longer have any power over another Jedi again.

"Perhaps I even taught you something in a lesson back at the Enclave? Is that why you despise me so? I spurned your tender affections?"

He was the most ill-behaved student she'd ever suffered through. This was worse than watching after the young ones, who were so well behaved and eager to learn.

"We never met before, Revan. Your certainly haven't taught me anything besides to avoid the dark side to avoid ending up anything like you. And no, I _never_ had a crush on you."

"Are you saying that I haven't affected you?"

Bastila met his sunny smile with a blank stare.

Damn him.

" _You_ have affected me." Some of the veneer began to peel away. "I happen to like you."

Was this sincerity? Was that expression earnestness? It was _awful._

Revan looked at her with an obscene fondness. He almost seemed to want to pet her head. "I think we _have_ become closer, haven't we?"

How much closer will we become?

_How much closer?_

She grimaced, but there might be truth there. Yes, eventually he might break down and beg for some absolution. For someone, one single person that knew him, to mourn for his death. Bastila would be the only person that knew exactly how he was to die, whether he decided to repent his fall, to share all his secrets, or to die close-mouthed and a Sith Lord. It was a level of intense, unwanted attachment that went deeper than that makeshift and unpolished Bond.

No wonder he tried to regain control however he could, with his crude overtures.

She understood, if not forgave.

That was her own failing, too. That she did not easily move past things, that she resented and doubted and worried and mistrusted. Maybe she could learn that from him. How to take in another, with neutrality and without judgment.

Let go and forget that cold ache she'd felt stepping into his ship, that every step closer to him had made her teeth and spine ache, the blood to rush from her head. No wonder so many had followed him out of fear. No wonder he'd kept so many other Sith in line.

But that was when he was able to use the Force.

Now all he could do was annoy her.

Bastila could have smirked right back at him. But Revan would have taken that the wrong way.

It was always better to move away. To recuperate as you stretched and felt the strain in your body from this. Listen to his saccharine, "I could rub your back for you."

Revan did that just to witness her reaction. She wouldn't give him any, not this time. "Are you trying to get my guard down? Or is this another one of your ridiculous attempts at flirting with me?"

"'Ridiculous'?"

"Is it not outlandish to insist you want to have some sexual encounter with me?"

"'Encounter'? It is, but I do." Revan didn't blink. "And maybe you want me to."

She hated him for making her hate him. "You'd blame _me_ for your childish comments?"

"Are they that bad?" His forehead crinkled as he appeared to think on his latest comments. "I must admit, it is possible my flirting skills have grown rusty."

"Did they ever exist?"

"Are you kidding? I was the clever one among the Sith. The one that seduced others. Wasn't that my reputation? I could charm rancors. You should have seen Alak, oh, especially when he was attempting to woo this woman he met before the Mando war had officially broken out." Just that was enough to set Revan laughing heartily at whatever sick memory he was replaying.

His hateful amusement. The lines and creases on his face when he laughed. Muscles twisting and the gleam in his unnatural eyes. You could see it repeatedly, and never grow used to it.

Strange, to actually have developed sympathy for a Sith Lord. Not for Revan, but _Malak_. It was entirely possible the larger man never had much of a chance with a best friend and teacher like this. Bastila herself might have fallen to the dark side with someone like this around her in those roles. Who was to say that if the duo had been separated, things might have been different? If only someone had taken a firmer hand with Revan, (and she can already hear his snickering) he might have been able to avoid his catastrophic fall into the dark side.

Bastila would move away, eventually. Always knowing that she would return to standing almost too close to him.

She took to reading to distract herself. Sometimes aloud, to distract him. Reciting the Code, and sometimes he'd join her, in varying tones of annoyance.

"None of that works. At a certain point. The words only mean as much as you want them to."

"They still mean something to me, Revan."

"Such a loyal little kath hound. Would you like a treat? Would that make you _shut up_?"

"Are you saying you aren't enjoying my company?"

"What, no, I treasure _every second_." He laughed, kicking his feet. "I'm surprise you even can notice sarcasm. Lots of Jedi can't. How _did_ you learn it?"

"You make it sound like I never left the Enclave."

"Did you? Were you raised there from birth?"

"No, I spent years with my parents before the Jedi."

"Did they die? No? So you still miss them?"

There was rotten ice underneath her. She would never discuss her father and mother with this man. "I'd rather not, Revan."

He would want only to mock her and if they did survive, Bastila did not want him to even think of her home world.

"Alright then. A few blissful years with the folks? Then the Jedi locked you up. Still. How did you learn irony?"

"Lots of the Padawans—" Bastila caught her tongue. Why share _any_ of her life with this man?

He smelled blood in the water. "What? Did they learn to make jokes after I left?"

When he left. When he ruined the Order, the schism. So many of their best gone and lost. The ones remains hardened, and some simply hurt in some way she hadn't understood when she was so young. Bitter. Irony had come easy to some of them. That, and alternating distance and surveillance. Too few Knights and Masters, and so many slipping through cracks. Those that were left behind developed certain adolescent cruelties. Especially for those that preferred to be alone. One had to learn to understand mocking cruelty, and develop defenses from pranks.

Her Battle Meditation had been a mixed blessing, by singling her out.

"Were they mean to you, Bastila?" But his smile wasn't spread from ear to ear. "I don't suppose you know their names? Perhaps I took care of a few?"

Bastila stared at him, silent.

He raised an eyebrow, trying for rakishness. "Maybe I'm feeling protective. Sympathizing myself with my captor. Did they make fun of your accent?"

Which did make her laugh, unexpectedly, even if such a thing only encouraged him.

"Or your hair? The scrunched expression on your face when you're deep in thought? Only I'm allowed to make fun of that. Like that. That rancor look."

Bastila was no longer amused.

"Did you get revenge?" Revan asked.

"They were only little jokes."

"Forgiving of you."

"You would have done what, exactly? You bullied the younger children, I expect. Or were you a victim of pranks?"

"Oh, Alek sometimes tried things. And yeah, there was shortchanging bed and hands in water bowls. Unpleasant things in water jugs. Shaving cream used for illicit purposes."

He hadn't realized he'd used that old name, Bastila took note of. Nor said whether it had been him or someone else doing those things. 'Draw your own conclusions,' was his motto. Hard to imagine him a small, mischievous little boy.

"Strange that you are okay with all that. I would have thought you'd complain to the Masters, or go crazy and attack one of the ringleaders in the shower with a shiv. Hmmm. You in a shower."

"Stop it." She managed a disapproving stare, knowing that it would not stop him. "I just hold people to a higher standard than you."

"Untrue. I kill people that fail me."

Bastila turned to a new page on the datapad. "So _that's_ what happened to Malak."

"…I have discovered entirely new ways to despise another person. Thank you for this level of hate I never knew existed."

Bastila aimed her most cheerful smile towards his direction. "That just means you care."

"'Care.' I care all right. Show you how deeply I care for you if you'd let me down. All over this damn ship."

"Such incentive."

"It should be. People used to line up to find a way into my cabin, and that was just for platonic meetings." His face so blasé.

The brown-haired woman turned carefully back to a datapad. "…I do detest you."

"Careful. Getting close to losing that self-restraint."

Her knuckles were almost white. "I think you might be getting close to finding out how much strength anger and passion can give you. What happens when that runs out?"

"My undying love and passion for you," Revan deadpanned. "That fantasy of you in the shower just gave me enough strength for another day."

"Make your jokes then." When she had him in a fairly serious mood, why not ask him something that had bothered her? No reason at all, considering he would talk with or without her encouragement. "Why all the animal comparisons?"

"What else shall I compare you to? A summers day on Tatooine? Storms on Manaan? A blaster pistol? Yes, a rifle. You're like using an Aratech sniper rifle. Taking that perfect shot. You are the gun and I'm the knee caps that have to be shot off."

"I guess there are always worse things," she allowed.

"Always," Revan reassured her. "There is no end to how far you can fall."

Through the day, that was a thing that would stick with her: it will get worse from here. The food would become scarcer, the air thinner, the water rations shorter until it all became _nonexistent_. This ship would drink until it was found or until it crashed somewhere and perhaps burned up on impact. Even Revan would die.

Surely he knew that.

All Sith must fear being swept up and becoming one with the Force. All sense of sense was lost, it was said. Everything you had done would mean nothing. Revan must hate that idea.

Oh, but how could she know what he felt? What he saw when he'd put on that mask? A few days together, forced to absorb each other's presence, that's all this was. Bond or not. Neither of them could claim to know the other.

Revan the Butcher.

Remember that.

I will.

Until they were together on some planet, some place she had never been and would never go, with a rough wall pressed into her back and his mouth to her neck while she whispered devotions and promises and something terrible lay at their feet. Fire in their hands and Revan's lips tasted of blood. _My apprentice._

I won't.

But all that would be gone in the 'mornings' and Revan would act like nothing had happened—because nothing had. That was nothing but a dream, a nightmare. Your mind is far too open to his presence.

'He may capture you.' Those old, ancient wise eyes so sad. The others so grim and Bastila knew now that none had thought she would actually succeed. 'You must stop him, Padawan.'

I did. Didn't I?

Her face pressed into a cold pillow, and her curled up as Revan had once observed and mocked by asking if she was cold, or perhaps _uncomfortable_ on that bed?

I used to think I was even lucky. At first. When my Battle Meditation talent manifested itself and I was given extra attention, but that hadn't even been enough. Then when I was picked to face the Revanchist, and I did, in those red-and-black hallways I found him.

Perhaps it would have been kinder if we had both died there. Perhaps Revan had been right about that.

She would think about those few steps, ten perhaps, to another door another straight corridor another ship. That's all it would have taken, she would remind herself.

Then Bastila would wake to him, already awake himself and staring at her usually with a studied detachment. "You snore."

Brush her hair out of her eyes and find her bearings. "I do not."

Go through a day of him staring, watching, perhaps commenting on her why she shoved what passed as breakfast at him. "Being handfed by a slave is so overrated."

Another long day of Revan.

Little distractions to fill the time. Eating and checking supplies, looking over datapad, examining the damage in the cockpit. Even dusting what she could, until he commented on spots she'd missed—only for her to realize too late that he just wanted to see her contorting awkwardly for him to watch. How she could despise him as he frustrated her in entirely new ways, to the point of hatred as she'd never felt before. So much more personal than wanting to stop the Sith army, and then he would say something with a blank face, and Bastila might find herself having to laugh. At him, at herself, at this situation.

Only to stop when Revan smiled at her, almost pleasantly, and informed her that she had such a nice laugh.

Meditate, concentrate on the expanding of her rip cage. Only to feel his stares, and where they focused upon. An awful man.

In the sonic shower, waiting for her clothes to dry. Underclothes. Naked and very exposed. Hearing his crooning, asking what she was doing in there, did she need a hand or perhaps two. Goosebumps. His grotesque face-splitting grin when she emerged. She would not even dignify his comments and suggestions with a reply.

Then fall asleep. Sometimes _to_ him, rolling onto her side and see him watching her. Neither saying a word. It no longer gave her such a shock to look at his face at these moments. Not gentle, or even calm exactly, but quiet at least. Until her eyelids would grow too heavy and she would drift off, less and less scared at the idea of another night with Revan not far from her bed.

There was nothing to be done about it, she would remind herself.

Until one night Bastila was kicking herself awake, a yell in her throat, mind not here exactly, but in a different here of another possibility. Disarming, alarming, what she felt, what she'd seen. A gift? A good thing, it could have been, to be rescued. Separated from him, finally. Still, she could not slow her breathing or heartbeat.

His voice came to her from a longer distance than what was possible, "Nightmare?"

Bastila needed a second to formulate a reply. Did Revan never sleep? "I dreamed…" Bastila couldn't look at him.

He cleared his throat. "It's perfectly natural to have those types of sexual dreams. If you went into detail, it is possible we can reenact—"

"Shut up, Revan. I dreamed we were found. By soldiers, I couldn't tell which ones." A headache pulsed lightly behind her left eye. He didn't know anything. "They hurt you."

Could still hear his cry. Her name and his, reaching for her, his, blade to protect him, knowing it was too late. Gone.

"You were afraid _for_ me?"

"Of course I was. You're under my protection."

"You sound almost possessive."

"I do not."

She had not.

"We do share a Bond. That's pretty intimate. I'm tied down with you giving me sponge baths. More than that, I'm Revan, the renowned antihero. Yet you've captured me. Ensnared me into your web, and you a young Padawan that's never been so close to a man."

There would be no more sleep for her tonight, Bastila feared. "What's your point?! Besides more blathering about your ego!"

"It's _erotic_." That was a word Revan should never be allowed to say, and that grin he should never be allowed to make. Altogether, it could make her recite the Code. Aloud. " _Sensual._ Not very Jedi of you, is it? Don't deny our connection. I'm feeling rather possessive myself over you. If another tried to get you to tie them down, I'd be pretty annoyed."

"What? For _me_? I'm only a _Padawan_." Bastila tried to suffuse her words with sarcasm, let them drip with it.

"I think I'd like another sponge bath from my favorite nurse."

Why had she saved him? _Why?_ You know why. She rolled over and found the light.

"I think I'd prefer you to rot there."

"You can do that. You have all the power. Me, all I can do is depend on your basic human decency." An innocent expression on his face was such a paradox.

Yet Revan did have some pull on her. She did clean him, if some hours later. Long hours where they both avoided speaking about the war and the Force and nothing, nothing at all.

"Go ahead, be rough all you want. You can express your true nature all you want with me."

But there was still victory to be had, a lesson on patience to be mastered. By being decent to him, showing him kindness he didn't really deserve, Bastila was learning a valuable reminder of her own humbleness. Forgive him, over and over again.

Even when he opened his mouth to whisper, "If you _really_ wanted to be nice—"

Hitting him with the bucket wouldn't undo all the previous caring she had shown him.

She clung to that. He had seen too much of war. That had stripped him of decency, seeing and experiencing those things. What he needed was to be forgiven, and that had to come from her, as there was no one else onboard. The moment he asked for some sort of absolution, a clearer path, Bastila would offer all her support.

Revan would know better.

(he did know better, but simply did not give a damn, he is a murderer and does not care a whit for you or the light side)

She paced and then tossed and turned and clenched her jaw and tried to find peace, if only in some black oblivion…and perhaps that loss, that failure and giving into weakness that led…

-that led….she awoke with a yell in her throat again, and this time refused to answer Revan's questions. "What was it this time? Did you see something important? Did you dream this time of Vrook finding us?"

" _Master_ Vrook. And no." She needed a thousand showers. And Master Vrook, right here, to remind her of past lectures

Still, she was expected to get up and to talk to Revan, the Revanchist, about the Jedi, the Sith, of their chances for survival, to feed and look into his eyes while she did that, watch him, watch his mouth and listen to his comments.

"You seem distracted today."

He had no _idea._ Thank the Force. That would have just complicated things, if Revan had any idea of that nightmare.

Better that she just pretend it never happened (nothing had happened), and she was completely chaste and no,

Eventually, he would have to stop saying those things and might even ask for forgiveness from the only Jedi here. Something must be winding down in Revan. Must. A mechanism of anger, dissatisfaction, just as she'd predicted. But that didn't mean he was kind, or even less disgusting when the mood caught him. After too many questions or too few or he was sick of her reading to him, or just _because_.

"Soon we'll have to experience the long slow death of starvation. Our organs will eventually stop. All the while, we will be aware of what is happening. How does that grab you? You wanted to talk about real disturbing psychological problems, well, there you go."

Bastila couldn't entirely deny all of that.

It would be awful.

As bad as this, this-perhaps-morning, having to sit near to him and rub a mostly dry toothbrush against his teeth. Nearly as grotesque as her dream last night…no, she would not speak of him. It. Of _it._

Bastila could only let her mind swirl around it. It had been very _unsettling._ Unexpected too. Not of wandering the cliffs and crags of Korriban as she had before, but of her room at Dantooine.

Ugh. No.

Stop.

But she could not.

Her _bed_. Revan, his familiar mask gone, but the rest of him very much there. Hands pulled her arms back by the wrists though she had not resisted any of it, even with her head shoved into the pillow and long fingers finding places they had no business being. Their Bond had done that, shoved that thought into her head, and made her awake warmed and chilled.

Revan could never know of it.

Bastila would simply never think or imagine any of that again.

"All of your training and talents, and here's where you are. The same goes for me though, as well. Until eventually we've had enough. When will the lovers' suicide take place?"

He shifted the leg she half-sat on, a twitch. How could he stand to be in this position for so long? Bastila would have been driven half-mad by now. _Had_ been driven half-mad by all of this, anyway, tied up or freed. Exhaustion tugged at her, Force or no Force. Unease kept her up, even as she tried to make do with this situation. Revan reminded her of previous teachers, the sparring lessons, endless searching for all weaknesses, probing until they found them and again and again until they became strengths.

"Never."

To all of it.

The Jedi knew him well enough to see him trying for nonchalance. "If it helps, think of all the smut that will be written about this trip."

" _What_?"

Why would that help her!? With anything? Why would she want to think about that? Why would anyone write that? Did he know about her having that horrible dream? What if he'd seen some of it? No, Revan would never have let such a thing go.

"If anyone finds out we didn't die alongside my flagship, that you kidnapped and carried me off…" He shook his head, leaving the details for her imagination. "Is that your reason for carrying on? We will have to survive long enough to sue them for libel."

There _would_ be rumors…but that would be in concern over her being corrupted by Revan and his influence. Fear that she might turn to the dark side. Not that Bastila had begun to care and had high hopes of convincing him of redemption. But all of that were things she didn't want to discuss with Revan, right behind talking about her parents and the moral lapses of other Jedi and the supposed-Empire he claimed existed or perhaps he would talk of all he'd done to break the disobedient soldiers that served him.

There had been enough rumors about Revan himself and whatever he might be and what might be behind that mask, the exact shape of his body and what his hungers consisted of.

Bastila didn't want to continue this conversation, but the silence had gone on too long, and she could find nothing else but to say blandly, "Jedi have no need for money besides the bare necessities."

Revan had waited patiently for her response. "How else will we run off to some backwater planet to continue our whirlwind romance? I see us on a beach somewhere. In a room with a nice view of the ocean, bluer than your eyes."

The heart of a poet, obviously.

_...Her eyes_? Unsettling, to think he'd spent any time thinking about them enough to form a comparison.

"Is that an insult?"

A considering glace at her features. Analyzing. Now Bastila wished she could use a mask to hide her own face. "Your eyes are _bluish_ , from what I can tell. At least they're not yellow, dear."

"' _Dear_.''" There was no longer the ability to put inflection in her tone.

"Blatant affection for your partner is good for kids to see. We should make sure they won't have our abandonment issues."

A new level to disturb her had officially been unearthed. Breathtaking, the lows he could find. Bedrock, Bastila would think with another new comment, but then he would find a shovel and get to digging. "Yes, all the _kids_ we'll have. You are a megalomaniac."

"Is having offspring so self-centered? I suppose it is. Still, that's how all species continue. Three kids and a roof that leaks, long dinners of resentment and monogamy. Monotony. Still, we keep together out of dependency. And for the children."

Bastila managed to not shudder visibly. If only Revan had a different way of amusing himself.

"Speaking of which, we never talked about your mother."

"And never will, Revan."

Still he rambled. "Why so close-mouthed now? Where was this side to you _before_? Oh. Delicate subject? Did they die in the war? From me? Did I personally order their assassinations?"

"No."

"Does that mean they are alive?"

They must be. Her father had survived so many things. Including her mother.

Bastila nearly smiled.

"What was that? Are you happy? You do miss them, don't you?" Revan shifted, and any chance for peace was gone. That awful friction as he sat up straighter, nearly bouncing her away, moving her backwards. One of his long legs stretched out between her own and he sighed, low. "You have no idea how much my back hurts."

She would not fall for that one.

He heaved a sign, and she nearly saw his collarbone under his armor. "I'm sorry you were separated from them. Can I tell you that? Removing parents from children tends to be a negative act, wouldn't you? Unless your parents were beasts. That would explain some things."

"Every murder that occurs in your name, for your empire, causes families to suffer."

"You have no idea what type of man I was. All you've heard is the Jedi lies that were branded around. Perhaps I didn't torture every person I came across. Do you know how many soldiers were proud to serve with me? How many planets followed me, and gladly?"

"They were grateful for your help against the Mandalorians. That does not justify creating a civil war."

"What justified the Republic's existence? Tradition? What of the cultures that came before and were trampled by the Republic? Was it _money_? Shall we discuss the corruption of votes by politicians so eager to fill their bank accounts? Law? Words only mean as much as one allows them."

"What of your best friend? Of the Exile and your Master? You talk of the 'big picture' but look at how many that trusted and cared for you and were _ruined_?"

"They all made their own choices. The nature of war itself—"

"The war you caused! Don't talk to me about nature. There is nothing natural about what you've done." She had seen too many dead, too many planets destroyed, felt too many she had tried to protect slip away, to even talk to the man responsible for that. It was obscene to speak to him.

"You are upset. Not very becoming of a Jedi. Isn't that right." Revan leaned close, perilously close. "You feel everything, don't you. Isn't that part of your gift? Empathy.

"I remember what that felt like. I do feel that. Bastila. Do you think I was a droid? I had my own attachments to the Order, to my friends and Master. Even the personal guards whose lives I protected through countless fights. I—I am not some freak devoid of all compassion. There is a reason so many listened to me and followed my lead." Now he was the impassioned.

"Everything I did was after careful reflection. After visions sent from the Force."

"Did you see this happening?" she asked, acidly.

"No," he admitted. "Though I did hope to one day meet you."

"To kill me."

"To save you."

"From what? The Jedi?"

The restraints clinked as he tugged on them, testing their strength. Bastila could nearly count the hairs on his upper lip, the trail of them around his chin. A cut rested near to his eye, slight and mostly healed, black and red. "Them too. I always looked after my own, didn't I?"

So long as they were worthwhile to him, yes.

"If only they had listened to me, instead of short-sighted Masters. We could have built a stronger government, one with less corruption, with rules meant to reward those based on ability, and not just those with connections."

"With you at the top."

"Of course." He nudged her with his knee. "You could be _near_ the top, though. Or is that not good enough? You want to be Empress, don't you? My apprentice. I expect I will have to cut your jaw off too. What a waste."

"Why would you be willing to make me your 'apprentice'? Doesn't that imply that I would overthrow you?"

"Yes. But who better? You are young, talented, clever. Dutiful. Beauty is nothing but an acknowledgement of aesthetics, but perhaps you could charm some diplomats? In time, if given the chance, you may have even learned patience. Why _not_ you? Besides.

"I do like you, Shan." His expression was disarming, alarmingly open. "You think I'm ungrateful for being forced to face slow starvation, and I am. But I do appreciate what you _tried_ to do. Do good intentions count towards anything?"

There was some trap here, lying underfoot. "Yes, they may."

"Even with me? I did try to save the Republic, before I knew it could not be salvaged. I saved many lives by stopping the Mandalorians. Is there a balance sheet you have that I could look at?"

"Now you care about undoing all you've done?"

He heaved a sigh. "You have never faced what I have. You don't understand anything, and I will never be able to fully explain it to you. It is a thing you will have to experience."

"How convenient."

He met her sneer easily. "Perhaps. Now, is there any chance you would be kind enough to shave my face? I feel rather unkempt."

She had a flash: herself having to apply water and soap, lathering his features, and carefully stroke at his face. Touch and remember all these hollows and marks and find out how cold his skin felt, how rough or soft, touch the dark patchy hair on his upper lip. Avoid nicking his face and look into his eyes and feel his gaze on her while she tried to focus. For how long? Until she was done. "No."

Revan sighed, tired of being denied.

…he did look awful with that facial hair though.

"How about scratch my cheek then?"

"What?"

"Well. I can't. And this beard itches."

It was another trick. Or he did have an itch, and wanted help with that simple annoyance. Well, she wouldn't be afraid, either way. Bastila stretched out a hand, ready to pull it back at a moment's notice. "Where?"

"The left. By my nose."

Cold and soft, porous. He leaned into the contact. "Ah. Better."

His skin cells were now under her fingernails. Even after she'd moved her hand away, it felt infected.

"Thank you." The Sith continued to look at her. "You know, I was wrong about something."

"What?"

"Before. Before, I was being far too reductive on the nature of beauty." Revan's voice was kindly, and that only made it all the more unsettling.

How much could _he_ know of beauty?

Something tickled, wiggled through her head. Some snippet of a song, music from a stringed instrument, the sound echoing throughout the stage. A minor outing for a handful of Padawans chosen for one reason or another. She had hardly been a teenager, and feeling so self-important. That had been beauty, sitting there with friends and hearing that lovely music winding through the room. Had he ever been invited to such a cultural event? The top of all his classes, such a pride to the Order…yes, he must have been given so many things, shared in so many confidences. Proud and a little too sure of himself, but that was after he became the Revanchist, and was all anyone could speak about.

Maybe he had been a model Padawan? Could he have been those things, and still considered the best the Order had to offer? Then why could he have fallen? If he was the best and brightest, how could Revan still have fallen to the dark side, and led a war against the Jedi? Maybe he had sat in the very same classes she had, in the very same seat, read the same texts, had listened to the same instrument. Had he seen the same beauty, the greatness of the Jedi and civilization, and still turned to the dark side? Had anything ever moved Revan?

"Bastila. I would offer you all I could give. All you have to do is ask. Even now, I could teach you so many things that your Masters could never do."

Like what?

No. _No._

That was her Master's voice, and it always gave her enough strength to stand a little longer, to continue a little more. "You have nothing to offer me, Revanchist."

"Ah. The Revanchist. What a title that was." He looked inches over her shoulder, recalling something.

"You're the one that came up with it."

"I was very young when I created it. It seemed important to become something larger than just a man, bigger than even the Jedi. That's how important the Mandalorians were then. I was a fool."

She tried not to make her surprise too apparently.

Muscles rippled around his jawline, and drew her attention to those unfortunate ears down to the dimpled chin and the deep-set eyes. A study in bone structure. Dark eyebrows. That mouth could have belonged on a statue, brutal and full lipped. A striking man, even if one didn't know what he was and what he'd done. "And now the Revanchist would prefer if you just left him alone to think."

Bastila made a face. "Are you now using the third-person? And you wonder why others called you insane."

"Short-sighted idiots called me such things. But you don't, do you. You always consider yourself to be the brightest in the room. Unless a Master is there. Then you roll over for them." She was nearly relieved when his eyes flickered in that certain way that let her brace herself. "You know, I was nearly considered a Master. I could have been one, if I'd wanted it. Does that allow any special consideration when it comes to having you in a certain position?"

Safe, disgusting ground. One that was sodden to trod on and could trip you up, but contained no mines. "Why do you insist on saying things like that?"

"Oh, because I'm attracted to you in many ways," he said lightly. "Why else?"

It might have been nice to get the truth from Revan, but Bastila would learn to draw her own conclusions.

She went so far as to sit next to him, and talked about all the planet she had seen, and he would respond in turn, despite his claim of wanting to be left to his thoughts. What was there to discuss? What star fighters they had preferred. What planets they had seen lately. She wanted to know where he'd discovered the Sith artifacts, how he'd created the weapons he used, where had his armada come from? He asked about her training, her abilities, how many soldiers had she killed, were her nightmares letting up?

Sometimes, Revan's leg brushed hers, and sometimes she wasn't horrified. Sometimes, he apologized for it.

Anything could grow banal. Anything could become 'normal' with enough time.

When his nose bled, she helped plug it. When he asked if she had something in particular on her datapad, she searched for it and would read it to him. Bastila kept track of his temperature to make sure he didn't get a fever. Once she covered him with a blanket after a day Revan had spent mostly silent but for discussing dejarik and a trip to Taris. She learned of the shrapnel in his back. Once Revan thanked her for the water she gave him to drink, and his low cough filled her with—some strange pleasure? Curiosity, unease.

The Revanchist looked a man, a defeated man that had, under the fury, a sadness in him. When he just stopped _lying and pretending_ , he was not a Sith. The Sith Lord.

He had been through so much. Bastila would not forget that. His friends had died, countless beings around him had perished through a war he hadn't created and had begun fighting to stop. No matter what Revan had done, he didn't deserve

(a slow death of starvation after being tied up for days and days)

a mindless hatred.

She would dream of him, him there besides her, his laughter, vengeance and fire, and she would notice that they were not in that pitiful ship but somewhere else, somewhere worse, where the walls were stone and the sky beautiful blue and clear and they so strong as they did what they must, with bodies at their feet. She saw the shadows of a forest and suffocated in clouds of red sand and the walked the endless plains of Dantooine. Him in plain Jedi robes again and her in something _darker_ as he offered his hand for her to take.

They were his, and yet she dwelled on them.

Later, she would fall asleep facing away from him. Bastila would even tell herself that she might have no dreams, that perhaps she would only have an adolescent nightmare of simple disasters such as failed tests that Bastila swore she had studied for, or even ones of rubble that fell down as she searched for survivors, or one where she found a Dark Jedi who was just a little faster than her. She would even find some peace before drifting off, the lights turned down for them both.

Then she would dream of herself facing him, of him facing her. Of watching a man she had never seen crumble to his knees, what was left of his face a horror. Of green fire that ate a planet alive, but that was not all it did, no, it devoured and then gave _birth_.

All to wake to stare blind into the darkness. It had been a bad idea to turn the lights off.

Bastila was young again, in her small room, sure that every squeak was of a monster come to eat her. She hadn't been good, like Mother had told her to be, she had snuck out, she hadn't washed the dishes and hadn't swept the porch, and now the monster waited outside her door to gobble her up as it did the other bad children. But there was no sound of the waves here.

She sat up.

A bead of sweat ran down her back. She felt it, and the sheets in her clammy hands and her feet touching the cold metal floor and the cut of the bunk into her knees. This was her, this body here with its sticky wet thoughts that dissolved when she clung to them too tightly.

Revan? There was breathing, too loud, erratic, the sound of a man trying to calm his heartbeat. Was he awake?—yes, and he waited for her, loosed and armed. His whisper was a roar, "I dreamed about you too."

Thunder, heat, and she could smell smoke in the air. He was just that, a voice that made dark promises and waited for her and _offered_. "Come here."

He wanted—everything. Her. Everything in her. More than even the Masters had wanted, the Republic, all those that depended on her.

He was the Revanchist, and he had defied the Council, killed everything that tried to stop him, murdered countless innocents, and he had been _very bad,_ he was one of those monsters, and no one stopped the monsters _._

If she reached out, would she find him there? Would he be there to push her back onto this bed, finally doing what he'd threatened and wanted for so long now? It had been a lifetime since she'd felt so alone, and _safe_. If Revan did touch her, how hard would it be to not... _Where was the light_?

"Bastila. _Come here_."

She had to find a way out. "No."

Bastila swallowed, and found the soft button.

The lights helped. They always did.

He was just Revan again. A man with overgrown hair and a flat, clever face. He was the same person that she'd spoken to of Coruscant and of the ruin that was Ossus and what a waste that so much had been lost there.

His voice though…

Her hands were already feeling less clammy. Bastila could see everything. He looked moderately surprised in the stark overhead lights.

A new mask settled over his face.

She supposed she was putting her own on. "Are you alright?"

"Yes. Are you?'

"I just had a bad dream, is all." She saw them again, in her room, that moment and dizzy want, and _she_ had been in control then of his hands. "That's all. Just a dream. Go back to sleep."

"If I won't?"

"Then just sit there."

Bastila was almost grateful for his eyes closing. For listening to her, for once. The bed was a comfortable distance away from him.

"You never let up," he whispered.

"No?" She would be the unstoppable force to his unmovable object. As stubborn as he could be. Bastila would not lose to him.

"Maybe if you were there…"

"Revan?" Revan could have meant anything. It might have been another sick jest. Or a ploy to get her to relax.

Or he had been wholly sincere, worn out mentally as he appeared physically, with so much fight gome from his tired limbs and broken spirit. He wasn't the Sith Lord, or wasn't much of one anyway.

One. One of many. But still completely unique, unlike any other being in the galaxy.

Who was this man that she had taken as her prisoner?

You should know that. How do you not know that?

" _Revan_?" She looked over at him.

But he was already drifting off, face relaxing. Soon his eyelids would twitch when he dreamed, though he claimed to never recall any of them in the mornings.

She sat back.

Soon she could learn of his plans for his armada. Details of his fleet and Malak's future plans. He would confess everything, and she would record it and hope it was found in time for something to be done. The sheets were cold against her skin, pulled to her chin. "Good night, Revan."

She left the lights on.

And she wouldn't dream of anything under that light.

In the morning, neither felt well. A headache throbbed behind her eyes, and she knew that Revan was suffering through the same thing as he blinked and grimaced. She would get up, despite everything, and continue onward into another day. What day? It didn't matter.

"Tea?"

"Yes, thank you."

Stir and sip and focus only on the flavor or it and the warmth. Inhale and feel your ribcage expand.

He was looking at her, at her mouth. What he was pondering about, Bastila didn't want to know.

But she did. Of course she did.

If she closed her eyes and reached out, reached out for him, she could nearly see and hear his thoughts. Images swam nearby. Desires and wants and a flicker from his concentrated imagination. This is what he really wanted. Revan wanted-her closer, to sink to her knees, to sink into him and for them to find a way around that armor, her clothes shoved aside and off, her bare as she squirmed atop him, clutching his neck and shoulders. She nearly spat out her tea.

Oh, _horrid._

It was the Bond. The membrane that separated their thoughts could grow so thin if they weren't careful. Yet he looked unembarrassed.

Why, yes, Bastila, I do want that. Did you ever doubt that fact? Don't.

Oh, shut up.

It was _preposterous._

Just because they were two human beings of a youngish age, they were expected to be awash with lust and hormones? No. Bastila would not even blush.

If he was going to do that, then she would take that tea from him. She was tired of having to serve him anyway, and watch him slowly sip, mouth pursed and she close enough to count eyelashes as Revan drank and swallowed loudly. Bastila moved the cup away. "If you're done."

"But I wasn't."

That hand grabbed her empty one, the unprepared one, and there was a flash, Bastila was only a Padawan, and he was Darth Revan, the Revanchist, and she knew all the stories about him and none were helpful. The places he'd gone and who he had killed and what those eyes had seen and where these hands had been.

Revan looked nearly startled, his grip not particularly strong. She wished she was wearing proper gloves. His were not enough, for all the cold metal embedded in them. When she tugged it, trying to pull away, he didn't fight but let himself be pulled away.

"Revan."

"Hm?"

"What are you doing?"

"Trying to keep you from leaving."

"There's nowhere to go."

All the while he kept four digits between his index finger and thumb. Her palm was stroked, explored, the lines traced and she could close around his thumb in response. There was knowledge in his hands. His hand knew something she didn't. It spoke a secret language she couldn't comprehend.

Bastila couldn't even explain her terror; Revan couldn't hurt her in his condition. He couldn't break her any small bones, not before she could drive her fist into his face or throat. Yet still she felt sick.

"That's not what I meant. You could always be further away from me. You don't need to be here. You don't need to be so nice."

I am not nice.

"I am only showing you the same compassion any Jedi would."

"You have gone beyond your duty, Shan. And I do believe there are many Jedi that would have left me to die on that ship. You, even now, are determined to give me a second chance."

"Did you want that opportunity?" The Jedi peaked at him through loose dark hair. It was hard to get a reading on him, with his emotions to reduced through the Force. Their Bond though, it must allow some things if she focused on that connection more.

"Do I? Does it matter anymore what I want?"

All the while, their hands made confusing conversation. He found the lines set in her palm, the short nails and she the long fingers, the slim wrists and the veins and soft knuckles.

"It matters."

"To whom?"

"Yourself."

"And you?" His look was sly. She saw the rough, dark hair on his cheeks. The small jut in his throat. His slim shoulders.

A Sith lord that liked to hold hands. A Sith Lord that needed comfort.

He had such scars on him, outside and in. Nothing she could help him with, unless he wanted to be helped. And she almost feared being let further inside Revan's mind. The cliffs and crags of it were treacherous and it was easy to lose your way in there.

He had nightmares. She could hear him at night, speaking to himself. They would never discuss it.

"I'll give you this, Bastila." He inspected her hand. "You have controlled yourself longer then I would have guessed."

"What do you mean?"

"It's surely been over a week, yet you haven't thrown yourself at me. Disappointing. We'll have to make up for lost time, when you finally do crack."

She would oblige him with disgust. "Ugh."

"I can already guess how it will happen. You will do it. You're far too compassionate to let me suffer for too long. How could the woman that dragged me all the way to this ship not be?"

The expert on normal human relations continued, "Here's what's going to happen: you're going to unlock me, and then act flustered when we end up sharing that miserable bed. Soon enough, you'll pretend to regret it, but we both know you'll really feel grateful to no longer feel so guilty for leaving your prisoner chained up. About denying yourself and pretending to be innocent."

Her jaw hurt. "I thought Sith didn't believe in mercy?"

"Are you a Sith now?"

Bastila was fairly certain he wouldn't try to kill her now.

"No, and I never will be." Bastila put fury into her tone, defiance and a steely will. Stubborn, she'd been called, and she would cling to that. It could be a compliment, depending on the situation. Let her be some great Jedi that stood up to evil.

"Titles can be such a restraint," he agreed. "They don't have anything to do with you and I anyway: Jedi, Sith."

"Well, glad you can admit you were wrong," she retorted lamely.

As dismaying as flinching back from Revan was, this might be worse: his face was just a face now. His, but that was less and less terrible. Those yellow eyes no longer frightened her with their hue and intensity. They became another fact. Like the shade of his hair. Revan has yellow eyes. Darker filaments around the black pupil. Streaks of something close to hazel in there. Either the closer look had adjusted her first glance of them, or they had dimmed, darkened. Gold and amber and tawny. Something twisted in her stomach, and Bastila had to look away.

Her tongue curled up, and she found a wall that was absolutely fascinating. Yes. Just stare over here.

Was this what being drunk was like? Why would anyone seek this out?

It had most definitely been over a week. But how much longer Bastila didn't know.

She was certainly more awake, though, that was certain.

Bastila had to straighten that datapad, inspect those wires again, make sure that bomb was completely useless, tighten her braids, meditate, try to discover where they were, study, prepare herself, reach out and search for others and deal with the crushing sense of failure when she felt only Revan. She laid out a list, another list, more questions to ask him, perhaps tell him today of her fear, tell him that they were going to almost certainly die here and that she had once thought of joining him to fight the Mandalorians.

Or tomorrow she would do that. The Jedi might just sit here and stare at that wall and _wait._

Sleep would come eventually, again, in a handful of hours. And perhaps she might have that one, that one where they were together, lying together with nothing between them and she had been so (happy) satisfied, laughing, alive. Bastila knew all of his secrets, she was his equal, and he would lean down to kiss her (yours, your completely now and forever) only sheets against them—but then she could see that the walls around them were black and somewhere far away a girl sobbed and begged, and Bastila would awake.

I dreamed of him last night. I'll dream about him tonight. I may never recover from this.

His darkness. Theirs now. Where did that line end? His was hers, now. That's what a Bond could mean. You _shared._

(do you think he'd kill you? do you)

What else do we share?

All of each other.

But what was it like to live in that body? See from those eyes? Done what he'd done. Imagine what it was like. With Kae as your teacher, Alak and the Exile had all been Jedi the Republic could be proud to call their leaders, growing, spreading and discovering all the flaws of what you'd sworn to protect and finding there you could undo everything that held you back, if you wanted. The weight of the galaxy on your shoulders.

She stared back at him.

"I've seen banthas that looked happier. What's wrong, Shan?"

Did he know? Could he not—?

Maybe it was better to not know herself the full extent of their connection. Perhaps if it even strengthened, Bastila could probe through his mind and find exactly what she needed. If Revan continued to refuse her questions, then what choice would that leave her but to work with the few tools she had left. All she needed was just to know where he'd gotten those ships (and why and how) and she could be moderately satisfied with that.

Revan only answered the most useless questions and even then would insist on having his own answered in return.

Bastila could not even ask of scars and those strange marks in some secret language that had been traced over his skin. The one there on his ribs, with those black marks that looked so crude at first glance. Revan had refused to say what they were, what they meant, why he had them; he had just smiled. You like them?

"Nothing. Though I have to wonder, have you had run-ins with many banthas?"

Revan laughed, and she could sink into that sound as she had certain lesson, meditation, a warm bath, sleep after a long satisfying day. "More than once, actually."

" _When_?" Bastila grimaced. He was lying, but still, at least this was a safe topic. Perhaps he'd had someone trampled by them. "Can't you tell me that much?"

"But the mystery adds such a sense of allure, don't you think."

"Yes, you need all the help you can get in that regard." But he did love the sound of his voice, and she could 'prime that pump' with getting him water, and ignoring that stare focused on her legs. It wasn't all sexual, necessarily. Envy mingled among that urge to wallow in that new curiosity, that even if he could find a (wanted/unwanted) distraction.

He was just lying there, and she could nearly flash on the indignity and discomfort—she hated him, she was so damn young and he'd had so much more he'd needed to do. Searing bitterness and an aching back, nails rammed into his knees and feet and skull, the sorrowful ache as he found he could still and must fight, just like she had taught him, his oldest teacher and mother that he had hurt so.

It was so easy to slip into his head and feel (be) him again, the easy grace and confidence. Everyone listening to her orders, following her lead, putting her in charge, and for her to be so much more than that Padawan with a gift for Battle Meditation. So much more than her Master's apprentice. Winning and winning, and turning her gaze onto the last piece that must be positioned and turning away at the wrong moment, my brother, the last one left and the pain, that smoke and confusion. Cleaved from the only thing that had made sense and ate you as it fed you. Herself in chains, having to listen to a fool tell her lies she knew better than to believe because that way, she had tried that way, and what had it given her, disappointment, delays, more deaths she could have prevented. That fool could not understand, too young, she had not been there and even if that fool was one you—

_Revan._

Let me. Just let me

(out)

(in)

Her hand was very still, even as she came closer to him. "You still won't tell me what you've learned of Bonds."

"No."

"Bastila?" He looked alarmed. "Bastila?"

She wanted to just lean forward and grab him by the hair and tug his head back. See that throat. Remind him that he wasn't Darth Revan, and he couldn't hurt her and depended entirely on her. He should be afraid. They were going to die, and there was nothing more a Sith feared than death and dissimulation into the Force.

(really? really? Is that true)

She had to move closer, all but sitting in his lap.

Revan was pleased, and she hated again his tongue-in-cheek 'flirting' and comments. It only insulted both of them.

Dragged down to his level, and she saw them wrestling in literal mud, someplace _wild_ and then it was replaced by his calmly amused expression. He had once told her that he had more fun here with her than he had been having bickering with his old apprentice and clearing what was left of the Republic in this- or that- system. 'Even if you were there, trying to convince those soldiers to lay down their arms and flee.'

He was starting to slip from that neural restraint, slither and fight it. Bastila could nearly feel him, and remembered to fear their Bond.

"It was mostly theoretical, you understand. This is new. Unfounded."

"So you don't know everything after all?"

"Maybe not. Or maybe I know exactly what's happening between us." Revan had small chips in several of his teeth, and they offered a fanged look at certain angles. "But you'll have to beat it out of me."

"There are some that would be happy to do exactly that."

"But not you? Or maybe you have a special plan for getting me to reveal my plots?"

She didn't know whether or not to blush; she didn't know which reason she had to be even be embarrassed.

"Mm, Shan, you can do whatever you want to me. I can't stop you. In fact, if you let me out, I'll do whatever you want." He was looking at her obi, at the leather that hung form her belt. "You have only to ask."

How could he continue on?

"This is easier than if we had met as something closer to equal. If such a thing could ever be possible. Perhaps if you were older. You, oh, you would have made everything such a struggle." He gave her a look, parts frustrated and affectionate. "I would have to charm you, wouldn't I? Slowly wear down those walls, silence all those voices that tell you how wrong this is. You'd understand eventually that none of them mattered. It would be a pain in the ass, wouldn't it?"

Well. It could always be worst. At least she wasn't his captive. Imagine that. Truly, that was the worst position to be in. His prisoner, and having to face his hoard of Sith, and Malak. Perhaps even used as their pawn and plaything as they tried to turn her to the dark side. Trapped between two Sith Lords. And she knew which one, unfortunately, would be easier to deal with and whom she'd rather be held hostage to.

"You'd insist on playing hard to get. But that is just you. I have to accept that, and remind myself that it would make your eventual 'giving in' all the more satisfying."

On the other hand, maybe Malak would be easier to slip away from…

Bastila shoved a water bottle at his face. "Do you have any sense of decency?"

"Of course not. What more do I have to tell you about myself for you to understand that?" Water spilling his sharp chin, down between that cleft. The usual self-confident tone, so grating. Eyes turned up in the corner, crinkled with amusement and cocking his head. "You shouldn't waste water now."

Her hand rose as though it had nothing to do with her brain. "You're right."

She wanted, no, _no_ , but it too late to stop, to catch herself. Lean forward and reach out. Her finger slipped out to catch the drops. His skin cold, rough stubble against the pads of her fingers and something in her stomach _twinged_ and dropped. Too late. She could—she could…bring her hand back to herself, to her mouth.

Salt.

It burned on her tongue, the tips of her digits did. All but panting into her palm, wet and warm and intimate. What had she done? _Why_ had she done that? A scream was building in her chest.

And him? Take it in anew. Eyes bulging from sockets. Blink. Revan looked very strange shocked. A new expression on that face she had practically stroked. "I usually am."

His leg between her legs. Both of them realizing it.

"Bastila?" His voice, breathy, _young_. Hopeful. Face too familiar. Shifting, all of him, moving towards her, giving them both a new reminder of the restraints. "Bastila?"

Run away. Literally flee from him.

Close the refresher door and leave him there, ignore her imagination eager to prove a picture of him with his eyes closed and mouth puckered. For her. She wanted to blot out all thoughts, such as, ' _What are you doing with him_?' and ' _What in the seven Corellian Hells had that been?_ '

Their odd moments of almost-affection. Jokes. 'If you let me out, I'll tell you the location of all that Sith gold I hid.' Teasing her about him supposedly being attracted to her. In completely unflattering terms and taunts. Asking what she had been doing in the sonic shower for so long, she didn't need to use her imagination when he was right here. Things that made her shudder, even here. But only at first.

Bastila had made some peace with his comments. Just bad jokes that meant nothing and would not affect anything but her appetite. Until this.

Her appetite _had_ been affected, it seemed.

_How could you want that?_ It was the voice of every Master she'd ever had asking. _How could you have done that?_

Bastila was forced to scrub at her mouth with a brush for a second. But even that didn't make her feel better, far from it. A childish rebellion against what she had done and wanted to do some more.

His expression that had shifted when he thought they might…and what he wanted. No, that was not what pulled her to him, what _he_ wanted, it was what _she_ wanted that caused her to forget herself.

Krif.

She wanted to put her hand through the wall, such was the force of her rage. The dark side here, a hint of it. He would lead her there, push her into the darkness if he could. His final and last blow to the Jedi Order would be to drag Bastila. She would not fall, however much he tried to break and twist her away from the light. Especially not fall because of him. Because of what had happened.

But then, so what if she'd touched him?

Because she had wanted to touch him, in more than one place, and with nothing innocent in mind. Grab and hold in place while she did _something._

Something horrible.

And Bastila did know that it would be terrible, wrong, strange and hideous, but still, she wanted to do it.

Just as she had known it had been foolish to drag that telescope in front of that window and at least no one knew about the (minor) fire that everyone had thought had been that other young apprentice's fault and she had nearly forgotten about until now, about that accident with the bike and the kitchen and delivery, about the fights with Mother over why Father was always gone and why couldn't they go out was she really sick was she, about how close friends she really did have that could have been sought out to describe how she felt about her role in the Jedi Order, how hurt she had been at those who had laughed when she, thirteen, had failed that pilot training course by pulling too hard at the control.

She looked at her pale face, the shape of her chin and the grey eyes that she'd gotten from her mother. Bastila nearly sneered, just to threaten and scare herself by the familiarities.

I knew better. But I did it anyway. Just to see what would happen. I thought they were wrong. How hot could that glass get? There weren't enough Masters for everyone, and he was going to leave anyway, and I think everyone knew it was me after all, but it simply didn't matter. That hoverbike didn't even hit anyone; the important thing was that the delivery got there in time. Mother didn't want me around anyway. I'm a fine pilot now. They were jealous, that I got extra attention none of them even wanted to know me, they don't understand what it was like to have the eyes of the Council on them and the terrible responsibilities I was given.

I thought _they_ were wrong, and I was right.

Will I ever learn better? Now her hands shook.

They said to stop the Revanchist and I did and I even lived up to the ideals of the Order, they would have wanted him alive, wouldn't they? Wasn't that better?

I did this, for them, and what do I get? What would I get? A Knighthood? After all this? Or more busywork with her handlers (some help they had been) hovering around.

Bastila met her wavering gaze. Those eyes were still pale and non-yellow, her skin not that pale, but still, she could feel him in her veins, in her words, her petty thoughts. All I need is that damned mask.

No more lies or deceptions, Padawan. That was her Master, and that voice had to be followed.

You are headstrong and too full of pride, like we all said. We feared for you, that you might ever turn out like him, like them, lost to us and reason, leaving our side to return with your weapon aimed at our throats.

Bastila knew that now. And she knew there were certain similarities. Certain closeness, as well. Certain attractions to his way of thinking, nihilism and hedonism, and a confusing tenderness as you watched him tilting his head back as you held a rag to his nose. That stuffy, ' _dhank you_.' His spill of hair and his low voice as he chuckled along with you.

What if she did notice the shape of his nose and the sardonic lift of his brows? And, perhaps, found them mildly attractive? If there was tension, it should be discussed. Sex was not forbidden, but should be monitored. It was said that two Jedi might have a…short _fling_ , and then separate and continue with their lives. Acknowledge and deal with it.

But him. _Him_? Revan, the Dark Lord of the Sith? The Butcher? The untold amount of dead he'd left in his wake? Not him. If she'd experience the full extent of sexual temptation and its consequences, why couldn't it have been someone _not evil?_

That was who she would forget her vows with?

Him?

_Why?_

The Bond. That, and the large odds against them ever living through this.

And—no one had ever stared at her like he did, with such intensity, _determination_. Revan didn't care or take any of her threats and insults seriously. He looked at her and _saw_ what squirmed in her chest, and then responded in kind. All open passion. For _her_. Between that and this connection that had been forged on his flagship, perhaps it wasn't so insane, necessarily, that they should be drawn to one another.

You could fight it, but that didn't mean it could be defeated.

Revan ranged from a rough approximation of handsomeness to grotesque. The lines on his face that could deepen, his unsettling eyes and the things he said that were unwanted, but _novel_ , yes. She had never been with a man in this situation—one in which involved one of them tied up and her touching him—of course she hadn't been…but that wasn't just it. Too literal for what this was. The pit in her stomach. Awareness.

She had wanted to just lean in and lick that spill of water off his face. Have his hands freed and on her. Sink her teeth into his chin and press her nose into that soft skin of his neck. Devour him. Watch Revan's reaction. Let him be shocked and taken aback. See all of him, exposed and revealed and human.

What made it all the worse was, it wasn't a new feeling. Building and growing, ever word and every hour only damning them further. Finally, looking at almost calm, almost like he could have been another man that smiled up at her that certain way, and Bastila had just reacted. Just _given in to_ her curiosity and yes, attraction, to Revan. In that moment, she wanted to kiss him, obliterate her mind with the full extent of sensations that would occur, senses crying out. Another sign of corruption.

It would be a dishonor to the dead to care for Revan at all. All those deceased soldiers and civilians…no matter how he might have crowed and boasted before reporters of how he fought only those that attacked first, she knew that wasn't true. Bastila had felt every death when she faced Revan.

He could feign even mercy or pity for those dead, and talk of a larger battle looming ahead, but she remembered the children, the orphaned and infirm. The times she had seen a person break down when they found their loved ones. Identifying bodies without heads. Moans and begging of the hurt and terrified in the destroyed cities. She had seen the blood on the ground and tasted the dust. Snipers waiting outside the rubble. Whispers and hope you were not overheard and not seen. The buildings lit and tumbling down, and how they had been forced to stand there and listen to the screams for help. She had been told not to cry in public by the Masters.

One of her first bouts into the war had been as a medic, and her so newly a Padawan. How many parents had been told by her that their offspring was dead, and how many refused to believe her. The little bodies. What crimes had they done?

There were words in many languages for those that had lost a child, but none in Basic, not yet.

A name tugged at her. What had been done to that Senator, to one caught as a spy for the Sith? When his people had found him? Bastila deserved worst.

The dead weighed on her, and she felt their many corpses. Mountains and hills and stacks and piles of their bodies. All the destruction and rot and ruin.

Compare that to his smile.

No, Bastila would not come out of this place and join him.

Revan had such a strong pull on the Force that he bent others to his will in a way that even she could not accomplish. A part, a large part, did want to learn what she could, to know everything about Revan and his fleet and what he was capable of. Tell me everything, as voracious as she had been as an apprentice waiting for a Master.

The other part nearly hated him, and never mind the Code; Bastila wanted revenge and to right his wrongs, to see him suffer for causing the galaxy to tear itself apart. The Jedi Civil War, people called it, but so many Republic soldiers had joined the Jedi's cause…she could not forget those nameless faceless masses that had not joined Revan and the Sith. They too deserved more than her traitorous hands and mouth.

She had wanted to kiss him—no, worse than that. Nameless things that exceeded her vocabulary but not her imagination. Bastila had no say in the matter; her sadist mind was so eager to offer up inexplicable images. A voice whispered and taunted and wondered.

Revan was tied up and could do nothing and needed her in so many ways. She noticed every look and recalled every phrase he'd ever used. There was no one here but each other. He would tell her of all the ways he'd enjoyed himself, and offered the chance for her to do the same. Jedi did not have to be entirely chaste, now did they?

(but she must be, every word and gesture would have to be watched for any sign of failure)

Her dreams, so vivid. Not of the Force, but of some fever. This captivity. His consuming darkness. And what had he done to her? What could he do? Yet she was flushed. What did she look like right now? Bastila didn't dare stare at her reflection.

It could all be going according to his plan.

Bewitch and lure her. Seduce her.

_No. No, I won't. I won't allow it._

Revan thought she was a child to be twisted around his finger.

That was all.

And she had given into that, gone along with it and was now hiding from him. Dishonored her Order by even playing along with that, allowing herself to touch him like that.

No more.

Bastila would remember certain words about restraint that she had read to him just the day before. Yes, it was necessary, and she was willing to admit to that fact if it gave her any relief from this blooming heat in her stomach. She didn't like it in the least, but here it was, and it had to be dealt with.

He was Darth Revan, but also a person that she had gotten to know and care for after all this time trapped together.

There was some charm to him, intelligence, and he had the odd ability to open doors in your mind and make you wonder certain questions. Revan could undermine and dig into your skin. That smile promised too much.

Bold eyebrows and a firm, dimpled chin. He didn't need to wear that absurd mask, not really. That nose could be fetching, in its own way. If Revan shaved, that jawline might look better. He was handsome, almost, and—and had pretty eyelashes and that low voice that made something in Bastila suddenly lose a little strength in her knees.

Foolish. Like a schoolgirl crush.

For him—ugh. Yes, for him. Despite everything, she was weakened and confused and curious. The Bond had allowed new doors to suddenly be open, and in slithered the questions. Just as he wanted. Revan expected her to blush and crumble.

Well, Bastila would not.

There was only so much here to cling to, only so much left to her. She wouldn't share information about her family or discuss hypotheticals or recall her Master's disappointment or her own plans for the future.

He wanted to tear her down (like the rest, so many glad to see her failures displayed, always watching her for any mistake), to weaken her and dissemble her and rearrange her into whatever design _he_ picked.

These were not her thoughts.

They were petty and foolish, dishonest, of the dark side.

She inhaled.

Exhaled.

Logic had nothing to do with this. It was a treacherous, frightening ground she walked upon.

Never mind, oh, never mind.

Why did it have to exist? Why had her hand and mouth done that?

Maybe it was his fault. It must be. Their Bond went both ways, and he'd tugged her towards him like a puppet, never mind that collar. He was Revan and could work a way around it. Yes, he was Revan, and thus Bastila Shan would never touch him, never.

Alright.

Inhale.

They did need to save water. All she had been was thirsty, and that drop of water had looked delicious rolling down his skin—No.

No. It had been a flickering compulsion. Like hair in her eyes that needed to get pushed away. Just some physical urge that was beyond her control. Like hunger perhaps.

Or not.

Not like that at all.

…A sneeze, yes. A convulsion. Convulsive need. No.

A twitch—yes. A tic that led her eyes to linger around his body, perhaps too long. Perhaps unseemly. A nervous gesture that led to enjoying long legs stretched out in high boots, and to take note of his scars.

Exhale.

It was his fault even. Their Bond allowed too close a connection, and he had simply transferred his feelings onto her. That was the only possible explanation. She'd read and heard of such things, slightly appalled and confused that such a thing might happen between two people. Another mystery from the Force.

(Nothing had to mean anything if you didn't want it to.)

Revan wouldn't plead.

He still had too much pride for that. And he was aware that bragging and intimidation would not work either. A wary resigned state was all he had left to play. Jokes. Grimaces and complaints. Something raw in his eyes.

What if he does beg?

It was an almost funny image. Him, desperate and openly so. Revan, pleading, _please, Bastila, please_ , at her mercy…her amusement fled.

She closed her eyes.

If you let me out, I'll do whatever you want.

Bastila could still see his face. That terrible face. Wide shocked eyes and that full lips becoming loose. Just as she had, Revan had been processing the disbelief and horror. She had done that. She had done that to him.

The Bond.

She should have left him there, on the remains of his ship. Bastila would have had time to escape to a real ship. She would have been back in the Republic, with the Council, planning their next move against whoever rose to lead the Sith now. Malak, almost certainly, and that had to be easier than the previous Dark Lord. She would be taller, more mature, a little wiser and calmer for having faced Revan. No one would dismiss her from the room while they discussed tactics and how to best utilize her ability. Bastila Shan would be invited to all the meetings with the admiral, and the council room would not dwarf her. They would have Knighted her.

Bastila would have made a great Jedi.

She would not be this thing standing here, avoiding looking at her reflection, trying to deal with having discovered she might be attractive to Revan.

_Revan._

This was his fault, and he knew it, and owned up to that, and was proud of it. He reveled in her reactions. This was another battle for him to win and lord over everyone. Even if 'everyone,' the battlefield, the conquered, was her. Somehow, he was still the overconfident man who threatened and cajoled her from practically the moment they met.

He was so…

_Much_. Too passionate, eager, overly proud…and yes, Bastila could remember the Masters saying the same of her. They were feeding off of each other, perhaps. Bringing out the worst in each other. Was she helping him, or him hurting her?

There had been Jedi, years and years ago, a lifetime ago for humans, that had been allowed marriage and children, and Bastila had never had so questions for those Knights and Masters. How had they done it? How could they have done that, and controlled themselves well enough to function and continue with their duties? How did one continue being a Jedi, with obligations that might run counter to the Republic?

She saw them kissing, her being backed into a wall, blurred hands and nothing separating them. Their Bond gave a strange intimacy. She could have pulled her hand away from him. They did need to save water, but not _that_ badly. When she fixed her hair, sometimes he looked so riveted.

Definitely hurting her. Revan did corrupt and twist everything in his grasp. Which, apparently, included her.

He is Revan. He is not…not what I expected.

But still Revan.

_What does that mean?_

What if you were a regular man? What are you. What is this, this confused connection we share. Who are you, Revan are you still a Jedi a Sith what if you weren't what if I was not a Jedi.

Bad thoughts. Inappropriate questions. You wouldn't be here. Neither of you. Moot point.

Bastila was only twenty-one.

No one would know how hard she fought, that she had shown him compassion, that even now she denied him any power. Courage was doing the right thing when no one was watching.

This was the right thing.

Leave him there, to hang, bruised and battered. Marked. Hurt.

Poor Revan.

Yes, _poor Revan_.

Pity was safe enough. A cleaner death would have had some honor to it.

You could despite a shadowy faceless monster, even vow to remove him from power and even offer yourself to the possibility of murdering them, but how could you look him in the eyes, and still feel that way? He had done _this_ , and _that_ , he was a hideous monster but also this strange man that had gotten in over his head and smiled at her and called her 'Padawan Shan.'

And…he looked ridiculous in that armor. What remained of it anyway, with half of it gone, and the rest chipped and damages, smoke-scarred from the fight.

_Him_.

She could look at that face and say, _no, I will not touching him intimately again, not unless it's absolutely vital. Choking, perhaps. If he chokes, I will help him. But only then._

There he was.

Bastila was almost touched, despite herself, that he had actually attempted sleep. Feigned or not. Give her the chance to not face his mocking laughter yet.

Dimpled chin and features meant to twist for the wide grins that displayed teeth that might have been perfect years ago. Awake, he thought he was so charming, and now, perhaps he was. The man looked almost kindly, with his head hanging. Helpless and nearly _sweet_ due to that fact. Dark hair spilling onto his face. The increasing sharpness of his features, from lack of proper nutrition and maybe, maybe, the removal of his ability to manipulate the Force. Molded features with its familiar hollows and curves. An evil man, but one that looked, literally _unspeakably_ adorable in a certain light. Albeit, a _dim_ light.

Strange, given his face that could be compared to a shifty salesman outside a cantina that wanted you to buy a mauled swooper, rust hidden under a coat of shipping paint. Deep sunken eyes under stark slim eyebrows and a round, short forehead. Small ears and that long chin and short jawline. Dark overgrown hair that fell across his forehead in an uneven wave. A startling full mouth, curiously pale and usually curled in a knowing smirk. Unique, his face was, one meant to be hidden under a mask.

Boyish. Endearing as something so misshaped could become. His cracks about his good-looks being ruined, self-conscious or just accepting of those minor physical flaws that could add character. Oh, but why examine his face and try to determine if it was attractive or not.

(because it _was)_

Perhaps that was what made Bastila stop and stare, these flashes of him, all more the more striking for how rare they were.

The draw of his form. A man tied up and half-naked. Making comments as no one had, implications that found fertile ground it seemed. Cursed. Sometimes, Bastila spent too long in the refresher, trying to block out all images of him. The things he said. It was beyond her control to stop thinking about him (and she would be naked in there, exactly like he wanted, nude and bare) and focus on anything else. Unlike anyone else she'd met. All power and passion, unafraid. Arrogant, sure everything he said was right, so unused to be challenged, a man that gave orders and did not need to depend on others.

Sinewy muscles all stretched out. Jutting hipbones and hard planes. Depending on her and exposed, vulnerable. That V shape.

"You know, I rather feel like a piece of meat with the way you stare at me."

Perhaps because of the darkness, or the bloodshot quality of the whites around them, but his irises seemed less pale.

It couldn't go on like this. Things had to be addressed. Spoken aloud, for her own sanity.

"All this silence. Are you tense, Bastila? I have a way to reduce that. We both know what will happen here. All the sordid details you've fantasized about.

"Running your eyes over me. Not able to get enough, huh.

"You are a voyeur aren't you? You _were_ the one that sent me those obscene messages back when I was still a Knight. I had a feeling you were that type.

"Are you really just going to keep staring at me? Not speaking. Just _admiring._

"Padawan?

" _Bastila?_ Would you blink, at least?

"…I mean it, Bastila. You are genuinely making me uncomfortable."

Finally, Bastila could speak. "I make you _uncomfortable_? You mean that it's unpleasant to be stared at constantly?"

"Are you admitting that you were staring at me?"

The weapon she could use, in the name of helping them both, to reduce his control of her. Yes, she _had_ been staring, and what of it? They were Bonded, unwanted or not, and parts of him were still exposed and she was curious, _fine_. Bastila would not go in fear of that. He would not use that vulnerability as a weapon. Jedi were not supposed to lie, but she could feign certain things, tell half-truths and be honest as much as possible. "Yes, I was looking at you."

His seductive looks left much to be desired. "So you are charmed by me."

"'Charmed' isn't the right word."

"Engrossed? Fascinated? _Aroused_?"

Bastila wanted to duck those blows. But she had been taught that, in combat, one must lean forward and take the offense. "That's not entirely accurate either. Though I am…let's say _interested_ in you."

That eyebrow raised so high it nearly touched his hairline. "Is that what your groping was about?"

"I did not grope you!"

"All but kissed me."

"That is not what happened. I hardly touched you. It was nothing more than a swipe to your face."

Revan all but _growled_. "You wanted more."

"Yes, I did." Her hands became suddenly fascinating, and she curses this entire conversation, his stare, her giving Revan more ground. He was the one tied up, not her. He was the captive and she the captor.

"Are you being coquettish or seductive?"

"Neither." The Jedi would look into those topaz eyes. "I'm simply stating a fact."

"And what would that fact be?"

"I do possess certain feelings for you." The last few words grated out, and could not be rescinded. They floated around, taking all the oxygen from the air around them.

Feelings. Yes. That could also mean disdain. Annoyed was an emotion. Anger. _Disgust._

"Does that scare you, little Jedi?"

"No!"

Yes.

Perhaps.

_Partially._

"Jedi do not allow attachments to come into their lives."

"Are you attached to me? Well, besides the Bond?"

"No."

"So you just want a fling, to know what it's like? Or are you just drawn to my magnetic sex appeal?" Revan ignored her grimace. "Either would be understandable. Or, is it something else?"

"I don't want anything with you!"

"But you do. You are curious. About what we can do, what I might teach you. Do you think I can't see how you look at me? That because I can't use the Force, I can't sense how you feel?"

This from the man that would look at her and promise her half of his empire. But she was the lovelorn, wet-eyed fool? When he said that he was attracted and attached and smitten, and had said it first in fact.

…but _both_ of them were pathetic messes?

She felt sick. Walking down the stairs and missing a step and finding nothing to catch her.

Could that be possible, and it was another thing they shared? How could he honestly feel anything close to what Bastila felt? Was it just the Bond, and their captivity?

"I do admit I am interested in you. What about it? You are a Sith Lord, and of course I have questions. You still refuse to talk about your Fleet, or go into detail about where you discovered those teachings or discuss why you turned on the Republic specifically."

"That's not all you want."

Once, they had gotten into an argument over nothing, everything, and had just screamed and yelled over each other. Like Bastila was a child again, alone with Mother and insisting on something or another. She wanted to go back to that. To just fury and resentment, and not touching and having conversations about romance.

This might be the first and last time she would ever have a chance to explore some adolescent sexual mishap. That shouldn't matter, and it wasn't all—but it was safer than to think she could be attracted to Revan without death hanging over her head.

"No, it isn't."

His pupils looked dark and enormous. "You don't even have to loosen these bonds."

"I am not going to lie with you."

"Why deny yourself. No one will know. No one is coming to save us."

"You don't know that."

Someone would arrive. They must.

"You are not in a holo, Shan. Your self-righteousness will not save you."

"So I should forget all my lessons, and join you? Begin a _relationship_ with you?"

"Who said anything about having a relationship. There needn't be any emotions attached."

This entire conversation as scalding. But still, she had another weapon, as painful as it would be for her as it would for him. "Revan, between our Bond and all the stress we've been under? Do you really think it would only be sex, without _any_ intimacy?"

A whole new track Revan had never considered she might take. Tension in his shoulders, it was there. "Are you done? Why do you still fight this? Why do you continue the charade? Let me out. You want to. I know you do."

"Why? So we can have a romantic entanglement?" She scoffed.

"Why do you find that so unbelievable?"

"What I find unbelievable is—your reaction. Sith don't love."

"Love has nothing to do with this," he hissed. Ugh, his _tongue_.

"Are you saying that you don't care about me at all? You keep playing this part of a pervert, but we're not having sex. Even if we did—it wouldn't be that. We'd be _intimate_. Who is the one more afraid of that fact, Revan, you or me?"

"You are. You're the coward that refuses to acknowledge all the passion you have."

"Let's say I do. Now what?" Up close, you could see flaring nostrils and smell him, unpleasant all of it, yet she had to move in closer.

"You're still lying to yourself, Bastila. By omission. _Say it_."

She would not blink. "I admit that I do have some feelings for you."

"You—you do. Of course you do." Hunger and morbid fascination on that unsettling face.

"But it doesn't interest me." She shrugged, and watched the fury seizing his features. "It doesn't _incapacitate_ me and make me lie to myself."

But to whom was this attraction more dangerous for? Which 'team' had a bigger fear of love, lust, attraction? Jedi or Sith?

Jedi feared _nothing_.

Bastila drew herself up tall and strong. "Neither do I downplay my emotions as you do, Revan. Unafraid of sex, you said? You're terrified of what it might mean for you."

There were many inches of space between them.

"How can any Sith care for another? Put their feelings and even life on the line for the sake of another person?"

(Is that what she wanted? Is that what she could do?)

Had his eye just _twitched_? "So you want us to be intimate? To make slow love and whisper sweet nothings into each other's ears? You want to pull a _Bindo_ with me? Is that what _you want_?"

Revan remembered that, of all things, that old phrase she wasn't even sure referred to exactly, older Padawans and Knights throwing it around, to tease. About catching others flirting…the most ridiculous moment—she startled herself by laughing, by nearly doubling up with laughter. It was the worst moment, this precipice they hung from. What she'd said, admitted, the truth of that statement. What he'd said and yes, what she had been doing. This stark image of Darth Revan, teeth bared, demanding to know if she wanted to _run off and elope_. Tears blurred that vision, and it hurt now, her laughter, but she was helpless to not, could not slow the snorting and giggles.

"Stop laughing. You look absurd. _Stop._

"Do you hear me?

"Have you lost your mind?

"Stop laughing, you _schutta_. Idiot. You are lucky, do you understand that? Just luck that got us here. Who do you even think you are?"

The one he wanted to marry.

Bastila had to cover her eyes and hold a hand up in hopes he would stop talking.

Face startled into bareness. He could be vulnerable, he _could_. Mortal. What was a Jedi without the Force? What was a Sith Lord? "What do you want from me?"

His name was on the tip of her tongue, just slipping away. Stop talking, Revan. Stop _laughing_ , Bastila.

"I know what we are, Bastila. What's between us. What I am."

Her amusement was starting to dry up.

"I'm not an idiot. Shut up."

Her boots took on a new interest. Scuffed and fascinating.

"I _know_. In fact I'd prefer it if you killed me right now than draw out anymore suffering. Do it. Pull the trigger. Or better yet, use the lightsaber. That would be fitting."

Her face burned. All of her had been turned up twenty degrees to roast her. A horrible blossoming fear, _realization_ , what if he had been _sincere_ about some of what he'd said…? Not just taunts, but genuine interest in her beyond the talents at Battle Meditation and just to see how crazy he could drive her. He might actually find her appealing, in some way. This man could find her sexually appealing, this same man that had found the Sith way and had thought Malak was an attractive partner. Force help her.

Others _had_ , after all, developed some interest in her. Commented on her prettiness and mistook her fastidiousness as vanity and some wish to be found sexually attractive. Taken notice of. Soldiers smiling at her, and would stare, walk up to her with a certain quality to their walk, the way they held themselves. Only experienced after she'd left the Enclave, as far as Bastila could remember. There had been romantic entanglement among the apprentices and Padawans, but it had been so frowned upon and worried about. And no one had ever snuck kisses from her in the back of the library or in a grove when no one was around.

Worse than that, that what she had felt, unwanted and frightening, could be _reciprocated_.

Bastila _had_ been staring at him. Hard not to stare at the bared skin scarred from things she could only imagine. Curious, at first, then perhaps somewhat wistful at the span of his shoulders, so much of him exposed. The boyishly slim waist and the thinness hidden under the armor. Not _raking_ him with her eyes or whatever he liked to imagine, but yes, looking. Appreciating the certain lines of his face, and even coming to grips with the fact that he might almost be considered handsome, by some, especially if that person hadn't seen another person in quite a while now, and had never met anyone like Revan who was so unabashedly _himself_ and nowhere near as frightening as she had been told and might even be capable of mercy and kindness and forgiveness.

Then had come the touching.

It was possible—Force, it was all possible, all of it…

Bastila tried to hide the horror on her face, and knew she did an abysmal job at it.

"I could have killed you, onboard my ship." Revan reminded her. "You're not half as good as you think you are."

"I could have _killed you_ after you after your apprentice finally turned on you."

Head cocked, eyes half-lidded, Revan looked almost comforted. "It would have been kinder for us both if either had happened. But it didn't, and this is our situations. For the record, I happen to like you better alive. Pray it stays that way."

"Terrifying."

"We won't live through this. You have to admit that possibility. Why fight each other like this? Can we have a civilized conversation? Is that _possible_?"

"Are you kidding?"

"No, I'm not. Does everything have to be a struggle with you?"

"You're the one that—"

"You're the one that keeps asking questions and making accusations. When not ignoring me."

"We cannot lie and pretend to be different people."

"No. But we don't have to die with each other's teeth in the other's throat. I cannot repent, but there is this, Bastila: I do want to stop Malak. That puts us roughly on the same side. Enemy of my enemy, and all that."

His mask, the true one, had slipped on to hide that man that was capable of vulnerability, sincerity. Performing for others, the actor, how long had he begun this role? Assuming the mantle of the Sith? When he went to the war? As a boy, too good for perhaps his own good?

"Revan? Why do you keep insisting that we'll have some romantic relationship?"

"You're tiring me."

Yet when she used the excuse, Revan would only blather on all the more. "You _said_ you wanted to talk."

"Not about that. For krif's sake, don't play coy. You know how I _feel."_

"No. I _know_ you make crude jokes and continue to insist that I somehow would appreciate being an object of your affection."

"You would pretend to be innocent as you hurt me by making me say it. Humiliate me." Veins stood out on his neck. "It isn't supposed to be like this."

"I have no idea what you're talking about."

"Liar. Do you even know why you're still doing that? There's no reward you'll get for resisting my undeniable charms."

The joke was a lifeline for both of them.

Still, his faint smile slid away. "This is it, Bastila. Finished after a set amount of time. Like those takfish you get as a kid, to throw in a bowl. Expires in a week, then you flush them _. End of the line_. Right now, all there is left is to distract ourselves from a painful boring death is by talking. About our _childhoods_ , Force help us.

"If you let me out, then at least I can offer you something. Teach you more of the Force. Give you more power for a brief period before suffocation. That, and screwing each other in some way are all that's left. No fighting or saving the Republic ever again. Perhaps you were right. It would be more than just sex for us."

The small of her back felt suddenly sensitive. "We won't. We _can't_. You are—you. How could you even think we might end up together?"

She was a Jedi! A Jedi that had captured him to return him back to the light side! Why did something as crude and disgusting as—well _, attraction_ —have to enter this equation at all?

What did he take her for— a woman that would drop everything, all principles and morals, just to be with him? How massive was his ego to assume such a thing. Staring did not mean that one had to follow through with whatever vague fancy that might slip passed your guard. So what if she had touched his face (worse than that) and licked her finger made damp from spilled water from his skin? So what if there was now a sudden picture of him in the shower, dripping all over and needing to be dried—oh, oh, this was not going well.

The expression he made was "I've done and seen so many things that you can't even imagine. With my training, this, how I feel shouldn't be out of my control. Aside from the Battle Meditation, what's so special about _you_? And yet…"

She wished she hadn't asked, if only for the way he looked away from her. Hurt, in some way. Bewildered, too, and that only made it worse, more confusing for herself as well.

"I _do_ stare at you. Think about you. It's a damn foolish thing to be going through. _Irrational._ No matter what I try to do, they fail me. All that power you have, that passion you insist isn't there, it draws me closer to you. I want—I want _to teach you_. _"_

"It's the Bond." Bastila hastened to remind him.

"It is. Or maybe because it's _you_. What if, Bastila, this has nothing to do with the Jedi or the Sith or the Force, or even this tomb you've locked us into? What if it's just something between us?"

' _Something?'_

"What are you trying to say, exactly?"

"Shouldn't you encourage me to keep my mouth shut?"

"Why? It's never worked before."

"True." That rough hair on his forehead must have been an irritation. How had he not gone insane from the lack of movement? Bastila pushed it aside, errant locks away from his sweaty forehead to better see his widened eyes.

Let him continue. Listen. Why? A curl in her stomach, how aware she was.

"You've weakened me, I won't try to deny it. Just as Jedi can be hurt by having doubts, so can Sith. Years have been spent following my intuition, giving into urges and accepting my emotions. But those too can be dangerous for all Force users. Mercy and forgiveness can be a weakness."

The thin stubble on his cheeks didn't hide the sweat on his face. "At another time, I would have used this passion to make myself—no, I would have never allowed this. Yet I seem to have no control over this situation. Do you know the last time I was this helpless? The Jedi talk of the weakness that passion brings, but…that's not entirely what this is. I don't feel _debilitated._ "

This was the dark side? Cold, rather than that hot burning rage that could reduce all answers to violence. Still, as seductive as the Masters had warned. "Then what is it?"

"It takes so much energy to be angry, and I don't have that in me anymore. How long have I been using that, and the Force, for strength?" Revan shook his head. "You were right about that. And I've still never felt this way before. Curious, to feel stronger and weaker. I understand some things better now. "

Smell his breath and look into his trapped eyes. The exact shape of his mouth. Bastila could move closer and hold his face in place while she leaned in to kiss him. He was still tied up, and completely accepting of this feeling they both were experiencing. They could…they _could..._

No, they couldn't.

Both sighed.

"You keep saying I'm not a Jedi anymore, Revan. But are you still Sith?"

In his best lecturing voice, Revan asked, "What is Sith?"

How she hated that tone. "Don't."

"I was never exactly the cackling madman, was I. Now there's you. Our Bond."

That was nearly a confession.

See every pore on his face. "Perhaps we could help each other?"

"Oh, yes, now I'm not evil at all. Love saves all." His jaw set. "You don't. You _don't_. I know that."

How often was this man ever rejected? "That doesn't mean I hate you, Revan. Even if we can never be together."

"Our worlds are ending, and yet still you reject me? Cold." Revan sighed. "So what does that mean for us?"

"Truce?"

"Fine." Something twisted his lips upward. "That's all I get after my declaration of undying affection?"

"You're lucky we're friends now."

"Oh, is that it? How close a friend would you like me to be?"

A part of her, large and growing, despised it when he grinning. Careless and happy-go-lucky, it was the smile of a child with a present, of someone that had the entire world open to them and all they wanted in their grasp. An actor.

"I take it back. Let's go back to being sworn enemies."

"Too late. If you survive this, I recommend a new way to turn others back from the dark side. Just trap Dark Jedi with you to play therapist to. The entire Order would be saved. Shame I'd get jealous and kidnap you."

"'Jealous'?"

"Only I get to be tied up by you and harassed about my mother figures."

Perhaps even Revan didn't want to die alone.

A relief to know he was mortal. And a little unwanted enjoyment from seeing the disappointment on his face when she moved away. Her own pull on his emotions, not entirely unwanted anymore those strings that connected them.

If they did exist. Liars were easy to Revan. A Sith Lord that could be trusted? Bastila could literally throw him farther than she could rely on him not to betray her.

She would keep her distance, and watch him. Watch herself around him. No more wandering hands and refusing to pay attention when he might do something so crass as to apply his tongue too fervently to a spoon. 'I'm just _hungry_.' The things he could do with that pink tongue—yet Revan couldn't remain locked up as he was, not for another week.

_Bastila_ could not stand to have him locked up as he was for another seven days.

Suppose he did find a way out of his collar? Free himself and want revenge? Practically self-defense at this point, from his view.

If he attacked her, she could fight him. With this weapon, his own. 'You like handling my lightsaber, huh?'

Everything was tainted by him. The damndable lightsaber. Her bed. If she leaned too close to the low sink and felt it press into her flesh. In the sonic shower, remembering how he would watch her. Him, _him_ the source of the corruption, cause of it all, just look at him and see what he had done and was capable of, the pink scars, what he'd done to himself.

How many hours now would she lapse into fantasies that should never exist, of just giving in. Grabbing him and driving her face into his, yes, sitting on him and seeing what would happen? Let it be out of her control. Let him out and see if he would do what he hinted of, right here even, in this refresher, against the sink? See themselves in the mirror as animals. Losing everything that she had left.

Briefly, Bastila had wanted to kiss him, touch and explore, but that was nothing but a shadow of a twinge in her stomach. Already leaving her, to be locked away and pushed aside and _forgotten._

Please let her forget.

Please.

—and of course she could hear him out there, muttering to himself like the deranged evil Sith Lord he was.

No amount of meditation or doors could block him out.

How she despised him, even as she found that woman in the mirror looking back at her with a reluctant, pained smile that was slipping away even now.

This was not good. Not _healthy_. She had always done so much so well, and now she was crumbling. Just like before, at her trials when she became a Padawan. So impatient and headstrong and too bold. Impassioned. And look where that had led her.

Why him? It had to be asked, again and again. Why him?

Because he was such a challenge? Because Revan hated and despised and somehow still had a sense of humor and wit. Because of his comments. Because of their Bond.

Was it normal to despise and care for someone as Bastila did at this second? Revan _disgusted_ her, even now. What he was and represented, all he'd done and would not regret/ But when she had fed him, there had been too much silence and stares. Bastila had even leaned closer into him and the warmth of his body. It was cold on this ship, and she would die a Jedi, unbroken, but didn't want die _cold_. He'd been quiet, the last time when she'd gone to sleep. Rather than telling her another deranged 'bedtime' story of mass murder and hunting Jedi in forests and in dense cities.

It was possible that he felt the same, and wouldn't strike her?

But then, what if he wasn't lying? Could she die knowing that he'd suffered unnecessarily?

Could she?

Priding herself on logic, Bastila knew she would figure this out. Somehow. Rationally. With a _list._ She would make a sane list of reasons and from that, a plan would be formed and it would help her figure this all out. Crafted in the refresher, with the recently recharged datapad and the firm ability to ignore Revan's voice. Even his yells and singing and hideous questions.

Pros and Cons.

For what, exactly, Bastila was still trying to pin down. That was important. To let him out? To let him out and take him up on his offers of a, a sexual liaison, romantic encounter that would leave them both emotionally and physically horrified and broken beyond belief—especially the physical part because the second Revan tried to touch her, Bastila would punch him in the throat. To let him out and try to have some facsimile of friendship? Companionship. Teach each other more of the Force, healing and meditation, and to let him finally use the shower before the smell grew all the more overpowering?

That. Yes, that.

'Pros: it will be easier on the nose, Revan might be grateful, I do not want to be responsible for the torture of another (and that's what this was, keeping a person locked up like an animal), and we have only so much time before the inevitable occurred so why make it harder for both of them?

'Cons: Revan will be loosed.'

Oh, yes, _that._

Revan running amok. As well as anyone could onboard this time ship. Freed, the Sith Lord would remove that collar, he would find a way, if he could bring the Republic to its knees, he could remove a damn strip of metal around his neck. Then at his full power, he would turn on her. Torture and murder, and oh, krif, the awful things he said now made her all the more queasy. Comments in a more grisly light. What he could do, he would do. Bastila would fight him, always, but could she guarantee that she would win in a fight with Revan?

That was something she didn't want to find a definite answer to. And…Bastila didn't want to kill Revan. They would never be close friends, not even if they were rescued and he turned over to the light side, but she had done so much to save and keep him alive. Hadn't even strangled him when he begun regaling her with stories of his conquests and his attempts at singing. Fed him and brought him a bucket. Bastila had not done all that for nothing.

She wanted to trust him. To not worry of murder or vicious slow torture at the hands of a malicious Sith Lord.

Her face was thoughtful in the mirror. Paler and thinner than when she'd eagerly agreed to join the strike team.

She was going to die here.

That was alright. A Jedi's life was forfeit, and she would die having helped the galaxy. Still, it was a complete ending. No matter what she did. Out of her control it had become. Out of even Revan's control.

All his power and command of the Force, and yet still mortal and undone by a young Padawan.

After all he'd done, he did deserve this fate. Jedi did not kill, no, but the Republic would have gladly executed him. Revan had not exaggerated when he talked of being captured by them, and he'd made it clear that he did not intend to be caught alive by their ships. Better here, like this, he said. Asked. What he asked of her.

This was her fault, some of it. For being there, for insisting that she could handle this mission, and then moving ahead from her guards to face Revan with only a handful of Jedi behind her. For her hubris.

Pros and Cons of…giving into him, if he was at all sincere.

To know another, in such an intimate way. Revan, the Sith Lord, the Revanchist, and now _her lover_. Absurd. But—damnit. She would not lie, to herself or to him. A part was curious. It did exist, and she had admitted as much to him. Them, squeezed into that bed. Crazy, so _insane_ that she could not picture it. See him leaning down somewhat to kiss her, and it broke her up inside. Laugh at the madness, because she was _mad._

Never.

But there didn't have to be such extremes, kill him right now or bed him. No, there was always another way. It just required forethought and carefulness. Trust. Jedi must learn to trust their emotions so tempered, and follow instinct and make judgment calls. This could be another test for her, one only she and Revan would know about, and that made it all the more important.

The Sith Lord no longer threatened her, not anymore.

Just because he couldn't use the Force didn't mean that the Force had no effect on him.

She could trust in the Force, if not him.

That Bastila did know, and that made her bound out of the refresher. Face him with a renewed hope. Even a smile. Even keeping that smile after he began making awful sexual references and hints to what she had been doing in there. "Wouldn't you like to know?"

"Yes, yes I would." The surprised faded too quickly. "What is this, sexual overtures? _Flirting_? From _you_?"

"I am not flirting with you Revan. For the hundredth time." And still the Jedi looked at him pleasantly enough. "But, Revan, if you were honestly _interested_ in me,couldn't you come up with a much better approach than this?"

"So you do want me then?"

"I'm just disappointed. I did expect the Lord of the Sith to be, in some way _, seductive_. How else to explain how he lured so many to his side?"

"…You wanted to be seduced? No, I knew that already. It's nice to see you admit it though."

"If I wanted that, you wouldn't still be tied up and begging me to let you go."

"I never begged!" That one had hit a nerve, though he would never admit it. Revan didn't fume, but might as well have. Silent and pouting, annoyed, and even kept his mumbles and insults to a minimum as she went to bed. Didn't even make a single crude comment about how she looked or 'how he wanted to tuck her in' or anything. Instead he just frowned at her all but-beaming face as she wished him a pleasant night's dream.

He would sleep on the ground, or they could trade using this bed, sleep in shifts. Share a pillow.

Bastila was awake before him. Upright and moving and sure.

How nice it was to startle him.

Revan did, in fact, almost pass as handsome, if only when he was alarmed.

It took years off his face.

So did eagerness, she knew now. She knew too much and too little. She had scrawled and rambled in her journal to be handed to the Council for inspection. But she had left out so much. Lies by omission were still lies.

'Found Revan to be in a cheerful mood so long as we avoided discussing anything to do with the Force.' And leaving out the part about him making her laugh with his impression of Master Vrook, to never be forgiven by herself.

Leave out all parts of how you thought about his reaction when recalling stories of your past. Forgot about falling asleep thinking about him. Forget about dreaming about him.

She began without preamble: "Let's say I did let you go."

"Hm?"

"What would you even do if you were released?"

"Mm." Revan gave her such an obvious look over that she could nearly throw her hands up in mingled disgust and amusement.

She hated it when he made her laugh

( _she hated him_ )

"Oh, probably just plot to take over the galaxy. Or maybe fix the ship, since you proved to be so useless at that."

Maybe he could, at that.

"You want my word I won't attack you? How do I win your trust, Shan? Should I tell you my favorite color? Would that make us closer, Bastila?"

"I can guess." Darkness and blood, of course. For a man known for his traps, he could be so unimaginative. "Black?"

"Actually, I liked the color purple," he admitted.

"What?"

" _What_?"

She practically had to bite her lip. That schoolboy charm was so unlike what she had expected. Revan, you were supposed to escape and kill me, you were supposed to have died, you were supposed to be a better Jedi or a better Sith. Purple. You enjoyed the color purple.

He was amused for both of them. "But here's the most important question, and its one you have to answer: will we share the bed? Platonically?"

"I'll sleep on the ground then," she huffed.

"That wouldn't be gallant of me."

"As though you have ever been a gentleman."

"I'll have you know I used to the soul of chivalry."

"When was that?"

"Quite a while ago," Revan admitted. "But who are we kidding? You're no shy damsel." He met her confused glare with his worst smirk. "You're not a child anymore."

"I haven't been a child in years," she argued.

"Less and less of one every day. A _woman."_

"You're babbling."

"You find it charming."

Bastila nearly slipped. "If that was true, then wouldn't you I have let you out by now."

"Not if you enjoyed seeing me beg." Then his voice dropped, lowered and yes, Bastila was fascinated by him, charmed and she could be lulled by the sound of his voice telling her about which wire she should split and which should be pulled and cut, and still struck by the fact that Revan could have been a good teacher. "But I can do that even if you let me out."

She knew what he was talking about, but still, "Beg for someone to finally forgive you?"

"That too. There's no one to stop us."

I know. If only there was.

"No one to stop you from giving in, Bastila. All the things I could teach you." His eyes were cheerful, superior. "I give you my word. What else can I do?"

True. True enough. But her nails cut into her palms, and the Jedi made no move towards the cuffs.

"I think you should let me go."

"Would _you_ , Revan? If our roles were reversed, would you let me go?"

"You're still afraid of me. I thought I was your prisoner, Shan. Take responsibility for what you've done. Stop being such a _coward_."

Bastila wanted to hit him or run away, but that would only prove his point.

"Either let me go or kill me now."

She would let him go, and he would fall into her arms and declare himself saved, a Jedi, or he would wrap those hands around her neck. What if we are found? What if he finds a way to get back to the Sith? What if something happens, what if he tried something, not violent but a way to hurt the Republic somehow, again, what if he isn't changed at all?

What if she is the one changed?

"You don't understand." She did not fear just letting him go and having him kill her, no, she feared what she might do now as well. "I wish you could still understand."

His mouth was a thin tight line. There were twin divots set besides his lips, and given ten more years would be permanently imbedded there, along with those fine lines in his forehead, and the ones cut around his eyes would deepen. Perhaps another fifteen and there would be silver in his hair around the temples. "I don't want your pity."

"Then stay there and rot."

He wouldn't eat, and neither would she. Everything was soured and confused, and she hated it when he shifted. Both would just sit there and pout and hate the other for acting that way.

Revan made a show of falling asleep before her that 'night' while she tried not to watch him too obviously. He slept with his face turned from her. Sullen even in sleep.

It seemed very unfair that she could lie down here or get up and move while he was forced to stand or sit.

(and glower and complain and leer and want)

Would he really hurt her? She didn't know. Her gut said no, but this was _Revan_. He had turned on the Jedi and led so many to their death, including his own Master, the exile of his general, the betrayal of his best friend.

I give you my word.

For all of this, all she weighed, she also remembered walking by him and absently scratching between his eyes at his unstated request and both their surprise.

Their Bond had complicated things.

If she died, he might as well, and vice versa. Bastila had heard of such things before, and while not dismissed them, had never been very interested in such things. Her own Master had made sure to prevent over-attachment, and none of the other Jedi had been overly close either.

I was fine, in that regard. Until I met _him._

Her eyes fell on his sleeping form.

They were every lecture on attachment and the dark side. If they were found, the truth of their feelings revealed, the pair would become future lectures. Studied and if not locked up then exiled, perhaps after having been stripped of the Force. Someday, some young Jedi might brace herself before facing a Dark Lord of the Sith by reminding herself of Bastila Shan's fate, and remind herself to not end up like _that_ Padawan.

There had been interviews, not-so-long ago, and she could remember those questions. Things to be brushed off and be mildly offended by, at the time. What did a Jedi know about such shallow subjects as 'dates' and 'attracting a mate'? And those people had known she didn't know, and had just liked needling—but now she wished she could watch some of them to try and find out how one talked themselves _out_ of a relationship.

Remind themselves of his treachery. Even if that had been paid for by his apprentice's betrayal. The wars he fought. But that only reminded her of his reputation for fair laws and his strict laws against slavery. The headstrong cleverness and insistence on disobeying the Council, to fight against those that waged a war on the helpless. His eyes, yes, exactly, _his eyes._

She could have given those nosy interviewers a few more interesting lines now. She could have stood there and pushed back her cowl and said, right on those Holos exactly her plan for beating Revan: Yes, I will defeat Revan. I will confuse and defeat him by saving his life. When he's sick, I will feed and comfort him. We will share dreams, and some of those dreams will be quite sexual, yes. Why yes, I will tell you all of those details. Perhaps you'd like to hear about the one in the Jedi Temple, on the second floor of the Archives, right in a corner that everyone knows about but pretend not to. I will ravish him after I remove that ridiculous mask. He will be seduced to the point where he will no longer remember that he was ever a Sith.

Revan would hear all that, and come running.

So would the Masters.

Bastila covered her eyes.

So this was insanity. It was more banal than she would have believed.

Just for the sake of his smile and his hands and laughter. Your own life could be forsaken, for those things. She wanted him to just not be in pain, no matter what costs to her existence. Will you let this dangerous man out?

Why not? After all, even Revan had begged for a quick death, and he might be kind enough to return that offer to her. She did not want to die a slow miserable death of starvation after all, and if she let him go and he killed her, that would be an end. Perhaps if Revan did murder her, he would die alongside her, and that would be perfectly fitting.

And if he didn't, then at least he could no longer whine about that bucket and how often he was fed.

Go ahead, let him out.

If he did go mad, and torture her, well, that at least would be an answer too. It was better to be wrong, than to simply be passive and just _wait_ for something to happen.

What if—what if he is simply even adamant about his supposed feelings? Suppose he tried to kiss you? What if he really does want to be 'seduced to the point of forgetting he was ever a Sith'?

She eyed his sleeping body again.

No. That part had been a lie on his part.

Confusion and hopeful thinking on her part. What did she knew of these matters? Though, Bastila did believe she understood how powerful Bonds could become, under the right circumstances.

Even a Sith Lord could buckle under it, and all of her gifts now seemed a flimsy shield to cover herself. And Revan threatened to peel away every layer separating them. 'There is no logic or dignity in this,' he'd once announced, after she'd caught him tilting his head to better get an eyeful as she struggled to find what part of that chair was so squeaky. 'And those fools on the Council could not help either of this. What we share is completely between us. Don't their lectures fall short, Shan, of this emotion?'

Nothing between them. Just two desperate starving individuals, and she had once found all those lectures on celibacy so unnecessary and had never understood why Revan's own Master, Kae, could have forgotten herself to such an extent.

Revan didn't understand either. All he wanted was to give into all baser emotion and make a full dive into hedonism. He wanted to see her give in and lose all that Jedi calm and sensibility. She could nearly sense his joy and satisfaction when she snapped at him over some minor trifle.

She didn't fear him or hate him enough though. But she didn't _like_ him either. She couldn't forgive or truly comprehend that full extent of what he'd done, and if Revan could be held responsible for all of that, and if she even had the right to make those judgments.

Perhaps because she hadn't seen him murder enough innocent people? A few soldiers whose names she had never learned and their sacrifice seemed small out here, when you couldn't even remember their faces but only the way he stepped over therm.

'Say you hate me, Padawan. Go on. You'll feel better for it.'

It was blind leap over a towering wall, and that required a faith Bastila didn't think she had. She doubted her own willpower and how well she could control herself (she was _never_ good at that) and if he could control himself (he could not). Still, there she was perched, waiting, not daring to quite look into the shadows and see how far down the ground was located. Nothing could be measured, and for all the warnings she had been given, she was _not_ that carelessly bold.

Not like him, with those sneers and easy banter. He could be so angry, and then blasé, calm even.

And no, despite those warnings Bastila knew had been lessons to remind her of hubris and ego, she was not like Revan.

Even in the most minor of ways. They did have brushing similarities, but her skill at persuading others came from her Battle Meditation, a talent that had more to do with the Force than her own personality, while Revan could simply speak and convince others of his cause. She was not inadequate when it came to social niceties such a small talk, and Revan was curiously charming and good at easy others when he wanted to. People had gathered to hear him _speak_ , and she could command squads of soldiers to sacrifice themselves or weaken their resolve so that they might be killed.

Yet she was a Jedi. And he was a Sith.

It didn't even end there.

Revan had been betrayed by his best friend, and she had no close companions that she might have ever referred to as a sibling. He had purposely led his first Master to her death, and Bastila had unknowingly, uselessly stood there while her Master bled out because of Revan. He had freed slaves and stopped the Mandalore in single combat, and she had captured the leader of the Sith, spared his life, only to perish alongside him.

Why had everything come so easy, so blessed, in his own twisted life? Justice, she had called this, but it didn't feel like that, not anymore.

But now they were partners, and his life was dependent on her own. Unconscious, things could be slipped from one mind to another, and the membrane that separated them grew too thin.

(She was exhausted, but couldn't sleep.)

(But he could drift easily into a deep slumber)

(It truly was very unfair)

There was a banality to all of this, too. Every day, nothing really changed in their surroundings, and that dragged at Bastila more than she would have believed. Even meditation no longer came easy, and with a sudden sneaking suspicion, she worried if that was because Revan didn't even try such things anymore.

How did he stand it? How did he not spend every moment as he had that first few moments of realization, and just scream?

Revan could not exactly escape and leave. He was just as trapped as she was, and whether she let him go or not wouldn't change either of their fates. He was still that traitor, a lost Jedi, and the Revanchist, and she was Bastila Shan, Last Hope of the Republic, and cursed, blessed with her Battle Meditation that had proved useless here, alone.

The only thing that mattered now was each other and their— _their feelings for one another_.

Yes, Bastila could admit they existed.

If she did die, it would be while showing mercy and compassion as any Jedi would. She would do her best to live up to the ideals of her Order.

Things had gotten 'rough' after all. Revan had been right about that. He did look better, and not just because he was drooling a little less. Though his nose for one things still bleed from time to time, and those eyes were still far from a normal human shade, and those ears were still small and slightly crooked. But now she could appreciate his accent and his dimples, and his compliments fed some hunger she hadn't been aware of possessing. She had lasted a lot longer than seven days though, at least there was that.

There he was too. Just waiting. The Revanchist, and now he needed her in so many ways, and would even admit that. He was this man that could shape the galaxy as he had seen fit that now claimed to be smitten with her and sighed when she repeated that she would not be tempted by him, 'just take the compliment, Padawan.'

Braggart. Short-sighted and moody.

But her partner still.

Even when they were yelling at each other, they had developed a camaraderie that proved that the Force did have a sense of humor.

Listing off, 'Stuck-up, misguided, idiotic, overly confident, pampered—'

'You shouldn't be so hard on yourself.'

'Shan…did you just make a joke at my expense?'

'Are you proud?'

'Are you smiling?'

She covered her eyes with her forearm.

Sleep was eluding her again.

She was not that found peace as easy state. Hours spent trying to meditate, and finding that gentle ease of everything slipping away, but it had never come easy.

And then she wondered if it had for Revan.

He was more than some fungus or disease that had crept into her thoughts. Everything felt different. The crinkle of his eyes when he laughed, the dull confusion when he looked at her and saw something Bastila had missed, the dismay to find that he made her laugh and she the same for him, somehow. She could remember all their conversations, the tilt of his voice, his healing cuts and bruises, aches in his back and shoulder and knees, the light touch of his fingers and the way he had taken to biting his lip, so recently.

Her friends? Her _friend_? And crush and mutual admirer and partner and crew member. Her friend.

It didn't matter why so much. She had made a wrong turn and there were no second chances but there were ways to redeem yourself.

And Revan did want that, somewhere, he did.

She could believe that.

I want to see through those eyes. Are blues still blues or are they tinted with yellow? What's it like in that body? I want to see what you have seen and do what you did. How does one become like you, Revan?

Bastila closed her eyes and tried to focus on his thoughts to peek inside, and found nothing but a black peace of easy deep sleep. Maybe he could escape into oblivion.

She heard that music again. Saw one of the masters sitting there, smiling at those under her care, and Bastila could even remember the red of that Jedi Master's hair and the brown of her robes. The crescendo, the swell and climax. She had been very young then, with the bottom of her feet hardly touching the floor as she sat there, listening. It had been emotion not contained but carefully expressed, not stymied but crafted and directed.

Bastila fell asleep listening to the music.

She herself didn't dream of anything, or if she had, forgot it the following morning. The, this following morning…she turned her head and found him there, awaiting her, and a strange burn when through her chest.

He was sleeping, or drowsing, or lying, and Bastila felt prepared to deal with any of those.

Revan was away from her, in the only way they had left. She left him to that, while she found the refresher.

This was her face. Her own. Her mother's eyes, grey and hard, indistinct, heavily lidded. They would sink with age. High, elongated forehead, this mouth, so often pursed, her round chin, stark cheeks, her long face. Hair wavering shades between brown and red and black. Bastila had not had any contact with her blood relations, had no pictures, but she could see both her parents very clearly.

She was combing out her hair, and every strand was suddenly important.

They did have any responsibilities but to the Force, to the Republic, to life itself. They were not to have romantic entanglements, and could not marry nor have children. Your life is to the Republic, and its people and its laws because of its people and laws. Our weapons have no edge, and are nothing but edges. All life is fleeting, every single life is precious.

Everything was very important.

Their last moments alive in the galaxy could depend on how this morning went. She swore, if Revan began the day by making some comment about her clothes or her posture or how 'frustrated' she looked…she would destroy the keys with his own lightsaber.

Or maybe he would just look at her, that wistful gaze that made her insides shift and her fingers to grow clumsy. 'You should let your hair down more.' That confusing thing they shared that's sincerity had to be doubted, even now.

But he is alive. He is alive, if not entirely healthy.

It only mattered that he live.

She stepped around his feet, his legs. So much of him.

Her movements were light, and she knew she should have been more cautious.

She knew this forehead. She knew the thoughts behind them, some of them anyway. The long eyelashes and hollow cheeks, the new and old scars, little red marks from his mask, his chin and the twin curves of his lips, parted and dry.

There was a brief moment, tiny, insignificant, where he opened his eyes and she _saw_ him. His sleepy confusion and slight confusion to see her there. His normal reaction.

Bastila reached for the restraints, the key in her hand. This would be the second kindest act she had ever performed. "Good morning."

"Dare I dream?"

"I think that you'd kill me if I hurt you. But I won't do that. You know that." She looked into his eyes, like talking down a startled animal. "But we can't keep like this."

"Agreed."

"Do you trust me? Revan. Do you trust me?"

"I do." A pause. "I won't hurt you. Like I said, I have no urge to share this miserable excuse of a ship with a corpse. It's already tomblike enough."

"I would have thought you'd like that. Considering your time on Korriban."

"That was for work, though." He watched every gesture and movement, and did not smile at her closeness when she used that key to unshackle him.

Revan took his time getting up and straightening his clothes. The grimace on his face. He was not a tall man at all, she rediscovered. But he filled the space and for a moment, she was frightened and stood too close.

There is no chaos…

His first act should be to fix the ship. Maybe he could repair it. Then they would return to Republic space. He would agree to follow her to the High Council. There were regrets regarding his past. He would atone for things. Bastila would make sure of it.

She was startled by the belt hanging off him, the loosened robes. She was too used to watching him. Maybe she was a voyeur?

No. Revan was never right about anything. Especially not about her. Still, Bastila had noticed. Was it normal, to fantasize about another person, even if you didn't want to?

She did not take the collar off.

He stretched, loudly. His eyes closed shut and then slowly opened. A man at the peak of pleasure. "You have no idea how good that feels." Then he grimaced, trying to check the damage down to his wrists, the ache in his shoulders. "Maybe you could rub my back?"

"Maybe," Bastila allowed, trying to calm herself. His making requests. Moving his limbs. The height of him. Talking about touching. Her breathing was too fast.

"The collar…?"

"Not yet."

But if it came to it, Revan would find the key or find some other way to break out of it.

"A cruel Mistress. I could show you things then. Using the Force."

The full span of him. All blackness and chipped armor. Not tall, but too big nonetheless. Thin and androgynous from a distance. Gleaming eyes and long arms. There was too much of him, too close and Bastila knew she could never tie him up again.

"You know nothing I want to learn."

He held up a long-fingered hand. "Before you begin another lecture, can you help me into the 'fresher?"

What?

Revan couldn't even make it to the refresher on his own.

Or he's faking for a chance to get closer. Oh, but that could mean different things on its own…and Bastila could nearly blush and squirm while he waited.

His armor cut into her and she hardly flinched when his arm wrapped around her shoulder. He was warm, trembling weak flesh and so was she.

She could even withstand, just nearly, him breathing into her neck. His hot breathe. When was the last time he'd eaten or drank anything? Right there against her ear, making sure she could hear every syllable and hear his tongue moving inside the pink cavern of his mouth, the vibration of his deep voice. "Thank you."

It was a long way to the 'fresher.' But Bastila had carried him longer.

He had the chance to kill her, but instead tripped over his feet and had to clutch the sink to hold himself up.

What an idiot.

Bastila nearly beamed at him.

He could have, but hadn't. Perhaps he couldn't. Perhaps he couldn't for different reasons.

"All of that, for this," he mused aloud. One hand gestured around the room.

"You've made a series of very bad choices," she agreed.

"I can still make a few more." His grin was cheeky.

Bastila knew that smile. It was one he must have worn as he was Knighted, as his Masters smiled back with approval, as he paraded off to war, apprentice at his side, onward to the Mandalorians. The same one he would have worn facing the Mandalore and the one to bloom as the exiled general followed orders and would be ruined for that loyalty.

Whatever he could do, so could she. They were nearly the same now, in some way. But Sith did not allow equals.

He was freed, and she could not wait, all patience gone, like she was a girl again with loose pigtails, insisting that she was ready for a Master, to take her vows, to craft her lightsaber right now. She had insisted, all thoughtless greed, and there had been some delight in just pushing to see what would happen. Just as some part of her had taken delight in saying, doing, something that she knew would upset her Master, just to see what would happen. Purposely angering her mother. Pushing and pulling the restraints. What will happen now? The worst. Let's see the worst.

Run ahead, reckless, to force the moment to happen, to finally meet him.

Go ahead, Revan.

"Such as continuing to aid the Sith?"

"Lead. _Lead_ the Sith." He could sense her anger, her unease. "You would be at my side. You'd have to be, Shan. There is nowhere else for you to go. Could you continue to serve the Jedi, after all this? Would you go back to being their _toy_? We both know you have been wasted with the Republic."

She would be freed with the Sith, yes, free of all restraint. There would be no one to tell her no, to wait, to collect herself and be mindful of others. Unshackled, and allowed to fight how she pleased, no words of caution at her shoulder. No Master to remind her of previous failings, she would be without guidance, another loosed animal, but one that a special gift. She would be _free_. With him.

He would beckon, and she would be forced to serve him, not out of loyalty or goodness, but of fear.

And what would Revan ask of her?

Her mouth found it could form sentences again. "Could you return to the Sith? You are no longer their lord, not anymore. Now they'll listen to Malak."

"They followed me."

"Once. Now you have been displaced. Are you surprised? You taught them to strike at any exposed throat?"

"Malak did not best me."

"Then how are you here?"

"He took advantage of a momentary lapse in my attention. I will not say it wasn't clever, for him. If he is stronger, then he deserves to have won." But he looked unbowed, if not what Bastila had imagined when easing that mask off his fallen body.

"You will not return to them, Darth Revan."

"You'd rather have Malak in charge of the empire?"

"Apparently, you felt that was acceptable. Why else make him your second in command?"

"There was no one else." His sneer was for them both.

Because you killed the rest. Because you scared them off. Because you broke them. Because the others were even worse.

Everything is ruined.

She wanted to take him by the shoulders. She could have taken him by the shoulders. "Do you even remember what it was like to be a Jedi? What it meant to protect _people_?"

Sought out his eyes and meet only with the side of his head, the messy hair, the curve of an innocent ear.

Everything is ruined, and I just want

to know

_why_

"How can you claim to understand what's wrong or right?"

"What so you know about it?" She countered. "You've had these feelings for so many people?"

"Have you? No, you refuse to let anyone close to you."

"And you are the kind, warm person-"

"Compared to you. How many followers and companions did I have? How many friends and loyal guards prepared to protect my life with their own? Did you ever know such warmth?"

"They were your slaves! Misguided soldiers you lie to and manipulated!"

"That is not all they were. I never turned on those that followed me and were prepared to listen to my commands."

"You ruined those that followed you! And what of the exile? I the Jedi and Republic? Did they not trust you? Love you?"

"I thought Jedi weren't allowed to love?"

Coward. "Avoidance, Revan? Should we talk about Malak? Your best friend attempted to kill you. No doubt he was maimed by your hand. Is that how you treat your allies?" Your best friend. Your most loyal friend. He stuck with you despite everything, and what was his reward?

"Yet, despite that, are we not beating your Republic? Are we not happier, and winning this war?"

"Are you pleased, Revan? Were you ever?"

His breathing was a little quick. "Are _you_ happy Bastila? You defeated me. Shouldn't that Jedi calm kick in soon?

"Have you ever known a second of peace. You look mad, Shan. You always do. Did you master ever talk to you about that? Did the other Jedi noticed? Friends that saw passed that cold expression? Did you even have friends at the enclave? I seem to recall you always alone."

No, Bastila wouldn't believe he had ever noticed her back then. Or listen to any of his insults. "I did too have friends. Why would you have noticed me and anyone outside your personal circle of fawning disciples?"

"We're you jealous? Bastila, did you wish you were more popular?"

"Of course not! I wanted only to be a Jedi." A humble Jedi that would become a Master, that had a Master. "To do good in the galaxy. Not have the entire war depend on me. _You_ are the egomaniac."

"Well you have risen to the occasion."

"They must be laughing at you. All those Sith that once had to follow you. They ate probably already making jokes and bowing down to Malak." Her face felt alive and sick. "If he wins then it will be his victory. If he loses, there goes the empire you worked so hard to create. Will they remember your name? That ridiculous mask? Or will you be just one footnote in the history texts?"

"You have a cruel side."

She refused to be abashed. "I said nothing but the truth. Perhaps you have an aversion to facts."

"Should we talk about hard data? The Republic will be destroyed in two years. Sooner, depending on the order and the senate. Malak will crush them and continue with the plan. The galaxy will thank the Sith, not the Republic and not the Jedi, for civilization being able to continue.

"You say I will be forgotten, one more betrayed Sith. But will anyone remember the Jedi that killed him?"

Her voice was as flat as his could be. "I don't care about fame."

"That no one will know your story? How hard you tried not to rise to Revan's bait and to control yourself? How else could you keep going, but for hope this is all worth something. Self-restraint is its own reward." He tsked. "That's not true, and we both know it. Don't descend to me as though I were _an apprentice._ I am Lord of the Sith, Ruler of the Dark Side, Breaker of the Mandalorians."

Such bold talk from a man who could hardly walk and had once been interrupted in mid-rant by her stretching and needed her to blow on his tea before she served it to him.

"…I am still those things, just as I was a Jedi Knight, as you'll remember, _Padawan_. As for my empire, they have another leader now. Malak who took the initiative will rule on. Now shut up, and help me." Revan took advantage of her kindness. Even now. She did her best not to shudder to kick him away when he rested against her.

He was not a very burly man, but had to watch his head inside the crude, small refresher. Hardly taller than her, a few centimeters so the top of her forehead would hit his mouth. He had stopped growing, perhaps, or was just built smaller. Remember his stories of being a teenager, even smaller, and getting drunk for the first time. Of being caught and accusing the Masters that ones ignorant of such a thing could never understand, and that was how he'd gotten away with it as the following morning none were in the position to punish him. ( _'Hangovers are the great equalizer.' 'That_ never _happened.' 'You think I can't drive people to drink?'_ )

What they looked like in the polished (freshly cleaned) metal that passed for a mirror. Together. So close together. She didn't like the woman that had to look up to see him. Or the man that was staring at the mirror.

Nothing would happen, murder or sex. She was still somehow rather optimistic on the whole. _Overly_ optimistic, her Master would have said with a downward twist to that narrow mouth.

"Right now is the part where you attack me," Bastila offered. Her hand fit too well against his hip, and she let go a little too fast.

"Thanks for the cue." She _hated_ his grin.

"Now what, Revan? Aren't you going to attack me? That is what you Sith do, don't you. Use deception to get what you want?"

He clung to the sink. "What have I lied to you about?"

Everything. Please, please, let it be a lie.

Bastila made sure to look disgusted. It wasn't hard. "If you can manage it, perhaps you can take care of yourself for once."

That stung his pride. "As though you gave me any other chance." He was looking at his reflection, at them both. His finger traced his upper lip. "This is rather unfortunate."

"Yes, that's what's wrong with you."

"You did say you thought I'd look better clean-shaven."

"Did I? Well, I don't suppose it could it be worse."

"I haven't been without my mask for this long in quite a while." Revan's stare was frank, aimed at the mirror's reflection, and then at her trapped in there alongside him. "It was my true face."

"No. This is." For better or worse, he was more than that mask. And not a machine or some monster either. Just a man, smudged and bruised and hollow-cheeked and tired, worn.

There was less than a meter of space between them. With the lights on, you could really see the ring of ocher moldering around his pupils, his clammy skin, him, all of him.

Right now was when she should have left.

Rather than looking into eyes that could have been brown or green or blue, and sane.

"Are you afraid of me, Bastila?" Revan's stare was curious, if not amused for once. He turned, carefully. "You think I'm going to snap your neck?"

"Why would I be afraid of you? You can't use the Force and have been restrained for—" Who knew how long? "—a while now. I don't think you could beat me in combat, Revan."

"But you still don't trust me." He was looking downward, face slack. _Bored._

"Why would I? You lied to the Jedi Council. To the Senate. To your troops. To everyone that ever trusted you." Her voice was getting stronger. "All you've ever done is deceive others, and you know it too. Perhaps you bought into your own lies, but now it's time to come clean. If only to yourself."

No, Bastila would not leave, would not run from this creature. If he wanted to fight, she would give him it. Let him make a move. Give her an excuse.

"Whether you want it to or not, you have lost. Your entire Empire will be destroyed by the Republic in time. You have been _disposed_. Everything you've ever done will be uncreated."

"Are you done? Will you ever _shut up_?" Very human, the smell of him, the stubble, the uneven spikes of greasy hair and large nose. His muscles practically trembling. Stooped shoulders. He was unimpressive. Nearly pathetic, downright sad and mortal and a man. One that needed help even.

"Or what?"

"I'm sick of listening to you."

Now he would strike. Revan had been freed. She had let him go and would bring about her own death through such actions. "Yes, as though your babbling about _philosophy_ is much better."

"Better than speeches on the Jedi Code. Hold your beliefs in your hand and tell me how they can help save either of us. We both know that it's worth less than Bantha shit!"

"To you perhaps. Forever the egomaniac. You know everything, don't you Revan, except how to destroy what your _betters_ had built."

"All you've done is krif up everything."

"You—"

"I upset balance for a reason. This, _this_ is the best you can do to help the Republic?"

It was the argument they'd had a thousand times. The same words and phrase and accusations and defenses.

But there was one major difference—

Now he could break her in all the ways he threatened earlier.

It was there, balanced on a knife's edge and could be toppled so easily, just one more word or stare or wrong gesture or move. He could grab for her throat, and she could do the same. Revan might find a weapon, might wrestle her to the ground with all the training he'd acquired during the war. She might be stronger, strong enough to fight him off and get to the lightsaber. She could complete her mission right then. Plan B.

One look that was hotter than the water that could come from the pipes, and Bastila could do nothing about that fact. About him, and what he was. This. Him looking ready to undress. Taller than her, and rather fragile. The space separating them. All these things. Both of them so aware. He _was_ shaking.

"You're going to just stand there and watch me?"

Like she wanted to!

"Leave, then. Bastila. Get. Out."

(help him? undress and help him so he didn't drown, yes, that was it)

"Or not." He was plucking off his gloves, slowly, one at a time, finger by finger. Revan pulled the left one off completely with his teeth. He hadn't been bored at all, Bastila realized now. Not bored at all. _Hungry_. "You could join me."

In what way?

Every way.

Seeing each other and unable to look away.

Why don't you leave?

No, she didn't _want_ to look away. It would be wrong to just stand here, but it would be worse to leave him alone. He was weakened and what if he slipped and hit his head, again? Revan might drown. All because of some misguided _propriety_? No, if they were found and when she was questioned, Bastila would say with all truth that she had protected Revan as best she could.

"I can't leave you alone."

I don't dare. You cannot be trusted.

That was what Bastila could have said, and perhaps that might have stopped him there.

Or not.

Maybe he still would have stood there, nearly panting, and nodding, "No, you can't."

An awkward grab for her shoulders was not the strike she expected. He was bonier up close, _warm_. Hands falling. _Yes. No._ She was frozen and twisting, breaking away until he tightened his arms around her. Revan made some noise, like a wounded baby bantha when his face lowered and sought hers. _This is it exactly it._ His lips were pressing into her eyebrows, wavering between her eyes, a brush over her forehead and then whispering into her hair. Teasing and helpless. Still, Revan did not kiss her. Not _correctly_. Her lips felt tender all the same. Did he want her to beg or plead? She would not demand his touch.

"I could snap your neck," he managed to enunciate clearly.

"Why don't you?" She demanded, surprised at how low her voice had been pitched.

"You know of all people know that I don't know why."

Right now, Bastila would push him away. It would be awkward and stilted, and Revan might be hurt again. Stare at her with a pained look of one denied. Rejected, and there would be some attempt at a smile, a joke. They would move away. She would leave the room and give him privacy. Later, they would work out some schedule or at least avoid physically running into each other on this tiny freighter.

"I do need to bathe don't I."

That would be the smart, sane thing. Any second, Bastila would move away. There no passion or chaos but only serenity and peace. Remember that.

Instead, his hands remained where they were. That rough chin for once not pulled in some repugnant smirk. His mouth, full and too pale, lingered. Eyes were that scary, frightening, beautiful ochre and amber, gold and tawny. Curious and nearly kind, young. _Him._

"Bastila? Mm. _Bastila_?"

It didn't feel right, but _okay_ to be like this.

'Okay' could go far.

'Okay' could lead to dark places.

At least, she would later tell herself, she hadn't been the one to grab him. No, it hadn't been her that had pushed the other to the ground and clambering on top. All but panting. The sour and spicy smell of him in her nose. Heaviness but not suffocating, Bastila had been able to carry him to this ship with only minor assistance. She hadn't been the first one to reach out. His hands were going to _her neck—_

It took her a second to understand that he was not going to strangle her.

He started with the braids. Untangling the bands and the woven hair. Then when that was falling around her face, loose, he began to tug at the bun in back. Burying his hands in it as best he could at this angle. " _Your hair_."

He was _groaning._

Bastila felt momentarily self-conscious. A foolish uncertainty that kept her from shoving him off and away, locking him back up. Too long without a good meal and peaceful rest, and as far as she'd ever cared, knew that she'd never been a vibrant exotic woman that had flocks of suitors, for so many reasons. That had never mattered. Her _hair._ It had been a long time since a proper shower, and though not vain, she did have some pride in her appearance. "It's a mess."

"So what? It's you."

"Are you saying I'm always ill-kept?"

"Are you saying that _you're_ ill-kept?"

"As though you can talk."

"Oh, shut up." Revan glared down at her. "I'm saying I like your hair. It's _you_. Aren't you the one that feeds off of approval? Now stop looking like that: all insulted. Stop it."

No, oh no, this was not going to happen. Yet her mouth opened, "Such a caring man."

A loving man—ugh. That word. Yet for all her disgust, at them both, they remained touching. What they were doing, what were they _doing_? What was she doing? Her hair hung loose around her face, tickling her ears, touching the back of her neck.

_This is the best you can do to help the Republic?_

Revan's mouth pressed into her ear. "It's no wonder you haven't been bedded. There should be some give and take in flirting. Not just insults. Usually."

"What do you know about that?" The things he said, half-meant, and Bastila could dislike him again for that. She could push him off, reject and stop all this. End his comments, even while he nuzzled against her, eyelashes gently tickling. His touch burned and made her flinch and she almost, almost—Bastila could have stopped this. Instead of putting her hand on his hips and keeping them there. Holding him in place. The hard planes of him. She could gladly hang onto them. "Did I _offend_ you, Revan?"

"You look so unnerved."

"Want what? A smelly Sith Lord grabbing at me? Insulting me? After all I've done, after I did everything I could to rescue him?"

"He would have preferred death!"

"Stop talking in third-person! You know I—I _dislike_ that."

You know how I feel, how can you just continue, how can _I_?

"Oh, watch your temper. You might fall to the dark side, _heaven forbid."_ What made him all the more frustrating was how he rolled his eyes. There were fourteen-year olds at the Enclave with more respect and maturity. Still he rocked against her. "If only Malak had a better aim. The afterlife would have been better than this, no matter what it might be. Hell or oblivion. At least you wouldn't be there."

Then his chest was being bared. Why. _Why?_ Never mind why.

"You're so completely awful. Worse than I could have expected. Even more horrible than they warned me." This, said, while his trousers were slipping down to reveal more skin that looked so unhealthy, as though untouched by any proper sun.

"Am I?"

"It isn't supposed to be like this."

How he watched her. Ate her alive with those eyes. "What should it be like? Slowly starving to death, or murdering each other? What am I supposed to be like, Bastila? _What would you like me to be_?"

Hers. Alive and sane. A better man. A Jedi Knight. Hers?

Revan was so bony, painfully so. He was a reptile slithering over her, again. His eyelashes still tinkled against her neck, and that was _torture_. "Would you like to recite the Code?"

Could have wept, suddenly, a twist of her emotions. "You are awful, Sith."

The suffocating feeling of him. Teeth and tongue threatened to find a pulse as his hands rose, he could choke her now, so easily. "No. Your voice. I want to hear it. Please."

Bastila couldn't speak _._ She _couldn't._ She was not supposed to get this close to someone, like this. Was not supposed to have this effect on someone. A Jedi, she was a Jedi and this was the man she was supposed to have stopped, to stop now. She _couldn't._ This wasn't anything a Jedi would do, sit here and let him cup her, grab him to pull that face closer and offer wordless agreement. Bastila couldn't have recited the Code if Revan held a lightsaber to her head and demanded it. This man on her, against her, she did know and didn't, the gap between them that could disappear, they could learn of each other in every way.

He tugged furiously at his robes in an attempt to take them off, scrambling to yank black cloth down and apart while she watched and saw. Oh, _but his back_. She had never seen his back before. His shoulders from this angle were new. More of him exposed, and not by his own hand. Find what was shaded darker and not unfamiliar. Revan spared her a glance. _Alright_?

Maybe?

How was she to know? When she could feel him through their connection, his greedy eagerness and expectation, the simple delight that they were doing this that nearly made her laugh despite _everything_. A shower, yes, that's what he needed, and he needed help with that. Then he gently leading her hand towards, on him, and everything stopped being so amusing.

"We could…"

They could do all sorts of things.

Something began to scream, a teapot left to boil. She heard it from a great distance. Then it came closer and closer.

Oh.

Oh, _no._

Bastila shoved him off, and left them both to shiver, bereft. Sitting up and looking towards each other, eyes traveling over what hadn't been seen or had and just needed to be inspected again. The very air itself was tainted. A humiliated sourness in the air. _Stickiness_. Disappointed at the clothes that remained. Force, but _what they had done_.

Oh but it wasn't so bad, not so bad, just a little touching, brief, you stopped. You _stopped._ Nothing really happened.

Everything happened.

She had given him what he'd wanted, finally. The tile was all the colder when you sat upon it, even with clothes.

Bastila needed to leave right now. That would have been the safe thing to do. Not just lie here like a wounded animal.

How had the galaxy not ended as reality was pulled down around them?

"We shouldn't have done that. It was wrong. You—Jedi aren't allowed…" To fall in love.

But it wasn't that. Which might have made it worse.

In the sparse holos she had seen, the books read, the two people that did do this were in an all-consuming passion that left nothing but each other. The type of love that overcame all differences in class and species and family. How many had Father read to her when she'd been a girl? When she had still been a small child, before even a Jedi, Bastila had known the archetypes and structure of them all. There were challenges they would face, but everything could be overcome.

Later, the stories no more complex but longer. The things they hinted of. All apprentices must have read those stories, tucked away in old tomes and passed around to be hid when certain Masters approached, and even Bastila had overheard and seen a few herself. Redeeming the charming rogue with the dark past was a particularly cliché one that Bastila had grown bored with before even the others, and then she had been a Padawan and glad to avoid the entire subject. Years and years ago.

No passion. Except what had _that_ been?

"Doesn't feel wrong to me. Albeit, it has been a while. Are they supposed to be shaped like that?"

Her elbow felt so good jamming into his side. As though he hadn't made so many comments—no, no more thoughts of that. Please.

How was he just lying there? Still capable of banter, somehow? But Bastila could understand. She had seen it on the battlefield. Shock. Now, that wasn't so bad, I expected it to be even more terrible. Both could still breathe. The worst had happened, and yet they remained. Now, to rebuild after the disaster. That was what one did, got up and continued on.

Bastila looked to see where most of his clothes had wound up. Only his. She had stayed dressed. "We shouldn't have given into base desires. I am a Jedi, and we can't act like this."

"You know we both wanted it."

"A moment of weakness." She insisted. "We shouldn't have…This is your fault. Entirely your fault, Revan."

The Jedi were trained to see others as they were, not just the roles they played, and so she had with Revan. All he was and did and felt. She saw, and had not rejected or refused to acknowledge the horrors he'd done. Yet here he was, next to her. Partners. They had not done anything quite graphical and sexually in nature. But still. It had been headed in that direction. Bastila Shan the Jedi and Revan the Sith Lord, locked in an impassioned embrace. His teeth on her neck. Hungry and desperate as teenagers who had not been constantly told of restraint. At the very least…who-knew-what-kind of diseases he might have that she was running in the risk of being exposed to?

There was one boot nearby, and maybe Bastila should just use it to knock some sense into her head.

"You're the one that picked the broken ship."

"It's your fault that our Bond caused this. That a Bond was formed. You just had to start a war!"

"You just had to _save me_."

Or use that boot to hit sense into Revan. "Next time I'll just leave you to bleed out then."

Or take these pants to just muffle her screams as her mind broke apart.

Oh, oh, what had they _done_?

Him. The mass murderer. The traitor. How could she have ever found him attractive…no, there was more than that. Attraction was nothing, nothing, in comparison to what they'd actually done. Bastila might have, possibly, somehow, found Revan physically attractive, but that did not explain this leap, this tumble and fall.

She turned to him.

When instead Bastila should have kept looking for his socks.

Awful, the-still-appealing quality of him right now. _Somehow_. What had she become, a starving animal? His bared chest, light dusting of hair on his stomach that trailed lower, skin bumpy with scars, sickly, almost, bordering on unhealthy, yes, and she wanted to run her tongue down his abdominal muscles and dip into his bellybutton. Revan would taste sour, bitter, and utterly satisfying to this obscene hunger. _Her_ tongue on him, to make _him_ squirm. She could hardly remember how to walk.

His voice. "Please. You like this. Might I remind you of who was doing what there? I'm the scoundrel and all that. Half the Holonet, even after I became Sith Lord, were about my sex life. You should see the things people have written. About you, too. About _us_."

" _What_?"

Revan's eyes darted downward, dangerously, at her explosive question. It really didn't matter that she wore clothes. "Even before we met, there were people talking about us. Opinion pieces of what would happen if we met and you won me over using your 'womanly charm.' So many datapads filled…"

She was going to slap him if he kept staring. And making those remarks to chip away at her sanity. That was not exactly the comparison Bastila had herself been thinking of –yet didn't the prince and princess of those old fables get married and have offspring? She wasn't and neither was he, and she could see Revan laughing and laughing. ' _Princess. And I your prince'._ "I never read _those_ sorts of stories. Especially ones that might involve us. How _disturbing_."

That had to be another of Revan's lies. It must. Those things could not exist in an Universe of the Possible they occupied, no more than _this_ could. Together. "I wanted to avoid any temptation," she explained, tonelessly.

He was waiting for her, arm outstretched. For Bastila to have around her. Give and take. "And look at you now."

At least now the Sith was looking away.

"It is a touch ironic," Bastila admitted. "Yet we are Bonded as you said."

Really, it was time to get up and leave and make a noose. Not to—not to _give_.

He would murder her soon, surely.

Revan was moving closer. "How can I be doing anything to you in my state?"

"Just being here with you is a vulnerability."

Wrapping an arm around her shoulder, a line of pink from a scar on his wrist, a light dusting of black hair. Bastila tried not to stare. Stare at his forearm and trail her gaze to his fingers, knowing where they'd been. "How do you think I feel?" Revan asked.

She could hear his heartbeat. "I suppose some good came out of this. Your eyes look less yellow."

"Still evil, Bastila."

Agreed. "They'd look prettier their original brown, is all."

A slim eyebrow rose. "How would you know?"

Did that mean they had been brown, then? "Of course I know what you'd look like. In order to capture you. What if you disguised yourself?"

"Like I'd need to from the likes of you."

"Yes. I was a fool to think I could capture you."

"Agreed all around. The mission failed." A tap on her back. "Bad Jedi."

Bastila found her tongue stumbling. "If we…if things had been different, I would—I could have been…not _together_. Not like this, of course, but as friends. We might have fought together on the same side, if you hadn't gone off to war. Or at least had returned with your sanity intact."

"Is this your way of flirting with me?"

His mocking always was good to clear one's head. "Or I could have been your bodyguard perhaps. Maybe I am that now."

"Handler," he corrected. Why was his hand in her hand? "Complete with collar. Was the Order always this perverted? Or was it after you became the star pupil? Wonder how many wanted to join up with the Republic after they put you up on the recruitment signs?"

"Including you?" Still torn over how she felt, and feeling she always would be, Bastila could at least admit that Revan curling a strand of her hair in his finger was pleasant.

"If we survive this, will you still let them separate us?" Revan asked.

Was that his plan? To use their Bond as a weapon to make sure he was not executed? Did he expect her crumble and confess love just because of this? "We'd have to be."

"You could be my bodyguard."

"Handler."

" _Lover_."

Her mouth tightened, and for a moment, she nearly pushed him away in denial. They _hadn't._ (Just once. One slippage.) It had meant nothing, and no one would know. No one would ever know. Even if they had—It was an act countless species had performed before and would long after she and Revan were both dead. All it had been was some minor, _very minor,_ touching that could be reduced further into more specific clinical terms. And the lights had stayed on. That was very important. Nothing too bad could happen in that illumination. Go ahead and say it, then Revan, if it means _so much_ to you. "We weren't."

But it was so hard to look at him when she said that.

Revan's mouth found her ear, and she really did flinch. "Murderer without a shred of shame with the perfect little Jedi Padawan, one of them not wearing a shred? It's sick. Romantic, but sick. How many unrepentant killers make good boyfriends? As it is, I'm only your boytoy to use as you wish."

At least he wasn't trying to deny his actions. Bastila nearly sneered. " _Fine_ , Revan, if that's what you think happened."

"Shameless. And now completely untrue. I'm more to you than a simple source of sexual tension. Or is lying allowed now? Along with shagging a Sith Lord? I knew there were loopholes with screwing without attachments, but still."

"…'Shagging'?"

They hadn't!

But—

But.

But there was a _but_ to that remark at all.

She wanted his blood to curdle and did her earnest best to will it to happen. "I hate it when you smile for no reason."

"I have a reason."

"Picturing all the people you've murdered?" So many dead because of this man. Remember that?! Yet here they were, together and nearly touching. What had she done?

"No, I'm contemplating proposing marriage to you."

"Your evil knows no limits."

"Not yet anyway." He looked around the room. "Shower?"

"Alright. I'll give you a few minutes. Just a few."

Right now, Bastila needed some time to herself. To huddle and meditate and find what peace she could. Acceptance. Then take her own shower and scrub all the skin off her body. Especially her neck. That was as far into the future her mind allowed. Scrub and try to live after this. She really did need a proper shower, to wash away his marks and smells and any sign of what had happened.

He stared at her, all but crawling away from him. Catching her around the waist, ignoring her complaints, and chiding her, "Bastila, we're trying to converse water here. The best way would be to _share_ it."

One glance.

One knowing glance and now Bastila knew why she hadn't gotten up earlier or stopped him before.

_Krif._

No.

She may have failed, wavered, in her vows and responsibilities, but she was still a Jedi. She all but held him, clutched him to her and pulled him to his feet, found his arms, his hips and waist, the boyish curl to his hair. Revan was her responsibility. "Get in there."

Bastila shoved him into the shower, and didn't care if he slipped.

Revan made all sorts of sounds when he sat down, stretched, was hit with a blast of freezing water gift by a shaking, furious, wrathful hand of his caretaker. All the veins stood up, and Bastila knew she was certainly the only person that had seen a full grown Revan huddled and trying to pretend he wasn't in shock. Vengeance wasn't the Jedi way, Bastila reminded herself, but sometimes it did feel good. "W-would. Would you…wash my back?"

"No."

He shuddered, shook his head, looked up with the water dripping off his face. Shaggy, misleadingly adorable with hair in his eyes. Could barely find the soap and remember how to use such a thing. He looked years younger and so much kinder when he shivered. Lost, like some little pup.

…Towels. She had to find towels. Where were they? They should be right here. She had to find them.

Her face was flushed in that mirror, eyes wild. Picture the Council if they heard of this. Bastila standing right there before them as she was now, skin reddened and marked from his stubble, belt a little loose, shaky and hardly able to walk. Having to explain herself right before she was banished, her voice growing higher and higher, 'We hugged. An embrace. He touched my neck. I saw him naked. What of it?!'

She would never be a Knight then. She might never be a Knight anyway.

Her training had changed, adapted to focus solely on war efforts and her Battle Meditation. Before her Master had died, that's what they had trained her to work on, over and over again. That's all she was good for, all they wanted her to do. No, those were thoughts of the dark side, envy and anger, and unworthy of her.

She _would_ have been a Knight, later, if things had turned out differently, and she had never run into Revan. She might have even gone on to be a Master, with her own Padawan and lessons, someone that would depend on her rather than a shaking grown man that needed someone to tilt the streaming water at him.

This is the Revanchist.

There were maybe tattoos on his back, deep imprints in black and red, mysterious. He looked less and less of a Sith Lord every time she looked at him, and wasn't even that muscular, lean figure that promised a slow, satisfying descent into passion and the dark side. Revan could hardly make any snappy insults while his teeth were chattering. If they did crash land somewhere, could it be some place cold and blistering? Long thin limbs and a bumpy chest and ridiculous knees. This is the Revanchist. Finally, seeing that bruised skin pruning, Bastila knew he had to leave rather than literally drowning or getting hyperthermia.

Towels.

Bundle him up and cover him up. Bones and thin skin. Bastila was only being a medic, at this point. At the Academy, there had been minders for the young children that led them to and from the baths and to their chambers. That's all this was. He needed help getting up. Freezing as a dead man. She embraced him with a towel and held him as he shivered. His neck was boneless, and he was getting her wet as he looked up at her, trusting. "Shan."

A damned human being. Revan was the same, and so different from before. Was this gratitude? _Finally_? His lips nearly looked blue, a soft purple. He was…

"I don't think anyone's going to save us."

_Hopeless._

She tilted and fell.

For one brief horrifying second, everything made sense. Oh yes. Her hands on his face, feeling, seeking. There. Those eyes, the lashes, that damp cheek, lower and lower. Wet and cracked, soft. Moist. Warmer than she would have thought. This is Revan. This is his mouth, and I'm touching it, tracing it with my thumb and looking deep into his eyes. Look at him. Bastila had suffered worse things than this by far. It was nearly very funny. How many Jedi could say they had held a Sith Lord? _She_ could. His eyes were wide. Revan looked so stupid. It hadn't killed her, holding him. This moment would end soon, and then she would die.

Ah.

_There._

So.

Why hadn't she died yet?

Why had she done that? Why?

I would like very much to take that back.

But as usual, reality did not reorient itself to offer Bastila any reprise.

Revan couldn't even be entirely blamed for this. Look at him. He's no Sith Lord anymore. A victim. If they had been soldiers, he could have complained to their commanding officers over here actions right there she realized. He was just blinking, and trying to comprehend what had happened. "Hmm."

Bastila nearly said something, nearly apologized but then he was _rising up_ with more emotion and strength than he had shown thus far, and it was _to grab_ her, and—and then she became too distracted to bother.

This is. _Hmmm_. Their noses brushed, cold and wet. The towel was rougher than his skin. _This is very confusing._ His expression was closed and nearly polite, questioning, until she'd grabbed him by the shoulders and pulled him closer. Annoyed by his attempt at coyness, teasing and insincere, how dare he act like he was being a gentleman in any way? Look at me. I need you to look at me. Bastila didn't want hesitation from him, would not have it allowed. ( _are we? yes we are_ ) Revan carefully touched between her eyes. Ran over her eyebrows, her forehead. Her cheeks, left to right, his thumb tracing small circles.I see you. Again, finding _that push_ , right there, his face lowering so his nose pressed to her skin, and there was nothing to stifle their noises, and—then he was nearly slipping, falling, and both of them should have fallen and cracked their heads open.

Instead, she caught him, and let go of other things.

"Oh."

"Oh."

"Oh my."

She was in no position even to mock Revan for saying that.

Once, they would set aside everything. So be it. They were only two mortal people after all. Animals if only briefly. Passion. Insanity that masqueraded as following instinct.

Bastila _did_ know this: she didn't want to die alone either.

A brief dumb eternity.

A fuzzy eternity of the rusted walls and shower stall, of gasping and exploring. Fingers. His wet hand against her neck, tugging her hair. Scrapping his scalp and tracing the cuts. These are his eyes, his cheeks, his mouth, this is his chin. The things a hand could do. Her shoulder in his hand. Hold him in place and no longer deny anything. Close your eyes. Trust, because this he was her and she him in some dim way, and there were no boundaries. Is this your face? Is this you?

It had all crumbled apart in five minutes, maybe.

Maybe?

An elastic, long five minutes that had been stretched to the point of breaking and snapping back to slap her in the face. Too long, too short, and no, any chrono that might say otherwise must be wrong, it had been years, it must have taken years.

Less than five minutes surely.

It really didn't hurt much at all. Everything made sense, for a brief moment. She could feel Revan's heartbeat for the longest time. She held him even as they sunk downward. That was very confusing. Their hands met at some time, and they lie there, breathing. Pulling away only happened after some wordless decision that this would not be the last time and thus they didn't have to stay here. Even then they clung. Her face felt swollen.

The two stumbling idiots found the bed. Too small, a plank, and no bed had ever been too small for her before. Its span could have been measured, but Bastila shied away from such and all figures right now. Naked and shivering. No room for space between them. How different and same this strange galaxy they'd fallen into was, one where they were intimate. Lie there now and breathe and savor dryness. Pin his arms to his side and just lay on him. Hope to find sleep before proper sense came rushing back again. No one would ever know of this. The bed was far too small. Years younger right now and yet completely an adult. All she could do was blink and swallow and listen.

Revan was staring between them. Neither of them was deafened or muted anymore. "I think you broke my mouth."

"If only."

"I just got a glimpse to what Malak must feel. I think you loosened some teeth."

"Shut. Up." Amazing how flushed her face come become, so immediately. Yes, that had happened. Now this: holding him, and him laughing, and there was something wonderful and strange about holding a person that was _giggling._ Did Malak ( _Squint,_ his name had been something Alek Squint-something, overly long and complicated, until he met Revan, he'd been tall and blue-eyed) and the other Sith know he was capable of that? He was no proper Sith at all. No wonder they'd gotten rid of him. "Why must you laugh at everything?"

"Oh, it's not just that. I was also just planning on where to propose to you, maybe on Dantooine. Coruscant, after I've conquered it. In the Jedi temple."

Bastila snorted. His blasphemy was too absurd to take seriously. "Malak will be the best man?"

"Exile your bridesmaid. Vrook, our flower girl. Will Atris officiate? Where would we register for presents? Korriban? It will be a lovely time. The Holonet will be abuzz with rumors about your dress and all the sordid things I'm planning to do to you on our wedding night. And throughout the honeymoon that will be so opulent it would bankrupt planets."

"Revan? Stop."

"Hit a nerve?"

"You are a strange _, twisted_ man."

The physical did not have to determine the emotional and psychological. He was Revan, and she was a Jedi, and still sane. The lights were still on, and that meant nothing too bad could really happen. No matter if she wanted to bite the dimple on his chin or not. Oh, it would be nice to just give in a little bit, a little bit more.

He all but hummed when she touched his face.

So, this was the Revanchist.

So close. Too close to be objective about what he looked like. It will happen again, of course it would. Bastila pulled away and remembered regret, an emotion Jedi were warned never to cling to. Yet what was the alternative, what else was there to adhere to?

"Are we friends now?"

"I suppose so." Something writhed and twisted in her chest. This was wrong, the worst thing imaginable—friends, yes, exactly.

"This is not how I expected this mission to go," she confessed.

"No." Revan laughed. "This was not how I expected to capture you. How could I have foreseen this?"

"Did you know you would become such a hated traitor?"

"I did know I was meant for better things that wasting my life away at the Enclave. But I couldn't have entirely guessed all the twists and turns of my life. Truly, _you_ of all people to bring about my doom…"

Bastila decided to not be too offended. Only mildly annoyed by the amazement in his voice and the way he kept petting her hair.

The Sith Lord was too in love with his own voice. "What did you expect to happen, when you were little? Did you dream of being whisked away by a handsome prince? I do own great swathes of territory, after all. Did you ever want children and marriage?"

"Did you?"

The expression on his face sullen. "If we had gotten married and start a family, any children would be taken away."

" _Revan_? What are you going on about now?" Bastila had never met anyone so moody.

"That's nearly what happened to Kae. What they claimed it to be, anyway. Don't know why she even had a child. Damn foolish thing to do."

"Maybe she didn't want to be a Jedi anymore?"

"She left it though, to be raised by the father. Maybe it was an act of protest."

Revan _would_ see a child as nothing but a symbol rather than a life. He _did_ have 'mother issues.' "Was her child Force sensitive?"

"I don't know. But if they are, Kae would have hated having them raised as a Jedi." Revan sat up, pushing her away from him. "Now, don't panic. I'm not going to try to get this collar off or anything."

Then he went to the refresher, and frankly, Bastila was too tired to care. Tired of him, too, for that matter, and too restless to sleep either. Just lie there, caught between the two states as she usually was only in Battle Meditation. Listen to him stumbling around, tired and drained, because of her in so many reasons, and then she wanted to hide her head under the pillow. No one could see her, either of them, and what they did would never leave this ship. Even if they were found, it would end, permanently, to be denied and forgotten about.

Other Jedi had lost themselves momentarily, and been brought back to the light. And this didn't seem to be the dark side. Was it? Was it not?

Once. Twice. Alright. Brief moments of physical…things. And just _those_ times. It didn't have to happen again now did it?

And she wouldn't express her full dismay either. That was the most important thing. There was only serenity, order, peace...where was he? He was getting a weapon. Revan would creep back, and press the hilt into her back, whisper something he thoughts was so clever into her ears, and then flick his lightsaber on.

Any second.

He would come back, to this bed, and then what? They had not done anything that would get them kicked out of the Order (if it hadn't been _Revan_ , anyway), but knowing that Padawans had been caught at worst by their Masters was not in the least bit reassuring.

Then Revan came back.

He poked her exposed nose not hidden by the pillow. "You didn't kill yourself then, in shame?"

Gods, but she had almost missed his voice. Nearly. A little. She rolled over, and felt safer for it.

"Don't worry. I didn't pry this damn thing off my neck."

Then he was jumping into the bed, shoving her nearly off the bed. Molded her to his form to save her at the last second. No air left in her lungs, exactly as he seemed to prefer her. "Hmm? Did you _miss me_?"

Revan had brushed his teeth, cleaned up, attempted to do something with his hair. Brought back the bands for her hair. Insane, how such a thing touched her. Literally, when his fingers began tracing and drawing circles on her skin as she clutched the bands to her body. She would close her eyes, and if he thought she was now an easy prey, Bastila would prove him wrong.

"So." Hands found her hips and did not move on. "Was I everything you dreamed of?"

She opened her eyes. "What?"

"Are you denying how consumed by lust you were for me?"

Bastila might just suffocate him with a pillow. "You must be mistaken. If anyone here was 'consumed by lust,' it was you."

Revan's hands were still on her, scary and large and warm. "Does that mean I didn't please you?"

You didn't do anything, we didn't do anything that _would_ please…Oh, oh _no_ , Bastila would not have this conversation. They would not dwell on their shared folly. "You were—fine. Adequate enough. Please, let's not discuss this."

"'Fine'? For what?" Revan looked terrible when he was happy, but somehow worse with feigned hurt and sadness. Lower lip twitching. He tugged at her braids. "Clearly I have to make it up to you. One's first romantic moment shouldn't be such a disappointment. Even though it always is. Still, you are Bastila Shan and deserve only the finest. You should at least have a smile on your face."

Her worst enemy and lover, yes. She really did need that shower. Alone and involving heavy scrubbing all while reciting the Code, various scripture and rules and past tales of Jedi that had forgotten themselves. That was the future plan. Right now, she needed to stop him and establish where they stood with the other. Twice, and that was it. A third time would be inexcusable.

Yet Bastila just watched him slipping under the blankets. Watch him head downwards. "Revan?"

" _Bastila_?"

" _What are you doing_?!"

"What do you think?"

She nearly kneed him in the face. Revan had no business there. Near her _at all_.

"Stop?"

Yes. No. Never. Damn his grinning voice. What he had done to that spoon came back in a warm flash. And now Bastila could asphyxiate herself with this pillow. Right after beating him to death with a boot or his own lightsaber. Was this his way of encouraging her to continue with this degradation and lapse in all judgment? He was kissing her stomach. Then applying his fingers. "I have no idea— _stop that._ It's. It's very _intrusive_."

He was—he couldn't. Bastila would not allow it. It was worse, somehow, to have him doing that to her. So one-sided. Politely enough refuse and then kick him bodily away from her. All the way across the ship. They had to reestablish rules. Hear her Master's voice, asking her what she had done with this Sith Lord. You let him do what to you?

"I'm not sure I enjoy—Krif. Stop. I'm serious. Stop it. Revan!"

Still she doubled up.

"I would never have guessed you were so ticklish."

She existed, delightfully, in this moment of an arched back and an awkward jutting hip, her stomach aching, his hands. Her own mouth ached. At a Hell when she didn't control her own fate and just let everything roll over her. Savor everything. All that durasteel concentration of Revan turned on her and in a way that did not involve tracking her down to have her tortured and/or killed.

'Revan' could be enunciated so many different ways. Stumble down to 'Rev' and then wordless gasps that they both knew were in regards to him.

Bastila found the rest of her body, eventually. There were tears on her face, but at least it was from laughter.

After, from a very far distance, "You have to make such a show of things. Bastila? Okay? Mm."

Then he was back, in a shock of dark hair. Back for her, on top of her.

Her hand was skimming over his back, unintentionally, and she didn't like that fact much. Scars rough and smooth against her fingers. There was a smell in the air, a sickening moist, musky smell that came from both of them despite the time wasting water.

That had not just happened. No, it couldn't have happened. The Jedi Masters were back, and they disapproved mightily. 'You… _let him tickle you_?' Yes, and that was after holding him, and touching his face for a long time, holding hands, and letting him go of his restraints in the first place. I should never been on this mission in the first place.

"'Rev' is not much of a nickname."

Bastila would never allow Revan that close to her. A Sith would never do that to a Jedi, and a Jedi would never allow a Sith to do that. None of this could happening. It wasn't reality. This was under lights, contained. They weren't doing this in the darkness, where anything could happen.

Therefore…it didn't matter.

"Revy then?"

And now what? They were just lying there, together, and him in nothing but a smile. Oh but Bastila knew what would happen. Now he would ask her to perform some type sexual act on himself. Awful. Of course he was, he was Revan, and he had won _again,_ and now would ask for 'something' in return as he'd hinted about too many times before. They had headed in that direction, after all. What came after what they had done? His state was obvious and she would not be touching that part ever again and as a matter of fact, would just look away from him at this very moment. The crass things she'd heard during her time among soldiers, the Jedi was aware of them. Jokes and references to do certain things. Submission and dancers in certain positions in seedy magazines spotted onboard ships. When he leered, Bastila could then remove him from her presence.

Instead, he just lay next to her. "That's not even my name."

"No it's not." Even his name was false. "Is there something else you'd like me to call you? Your birth name?"

"Not that." An exaggerated shudder moved them both.

"What _was_ your previous name?"

"I'll never tell."

"Oh, come now. What was all that talk of no longer denying ourselves?"

"I'd like to die with some dignity intact."

"Impossible."

"You should learn how to keep your mouth shut as well. Say you do live, after all. Have to deny all of this. ' _What_ did I learn from this mission, Masters? Oh, quite a few things actually. Don't worry, I stayed on top of my studies the entire time.' You'd have to provide them with pictures and diagrams in your report. Blueprints, x-rays…Not that it matters. I cannot go back and neither can you."

Bastila might just beat herself to death with that lightsaber. "Yes, I can."

Revan didn't seem to understand that what had happened had not actually happened. No wonder how he could stand it. That was why he persisted in telling her that she might no longer be a Jedi.

She was still a Jedi. She _was_. This was only a minor slip, and she could recover from it if she wanted. It didn't happen, not really; they would all consider her dead, sacrificed for the sake of defeating Revan. Bastila was still a good Jedi, to the Council and to the other Jedi.

"My backwater planet is sounding better and better."

"You can run all you want. But the Jedi will find you." She poked his chest, to find some way to be authoritative, until her hand ended up becoming distracted by the creases of his muscles. Swells and scars, this one across his pectorals and that one by his collarbone smooth and new. On her back and looking up at him was such a strange sensation, but not one altogether unpleasant.

"Will you be there? When they do it?"

"Do what?"

"Hand me to the Republic. Sever my connection to the Force? Do something far more diabolical to my mind?" Revan leaned towards her.

"If you want forgiveness…"

"If Kae is my mother, I am her son. There is always punishment. Will you, Bastila?" His own cheek so cold against hers.

"I will."

"Too bad about the kids though. We might have liked them."

Kids. This is what he said to mock her, as though she were the one declaring affection and desire. That had been _him_ and he had no right to deny his desperation before _._ Of course this was all a deranged fantasy anyway. Perhaps she was even the one captured by him, and this was just her way of keeping her sanity intact?

"Why even want to go back to the Order? After all we've been through together, Bastila? You think they'll forgive you? If you apologize real hard, maybe they'll admit they shouldn't have sent you on this mission. But they will still mind wipe you."

"They should do you too."

"Two for one," Revan agreed.

From a long distance, the tips of her fingers traced over his nails. "Are you asking me to choose?"

Jealous, he looked. Peevish, even close up. "No. I know what you'd pick."

"What would you?"

A life where she was a pilot, or a nurse, and him a mechanic. Was this the dark side? Wanting to not be a Jedi for even a little while? Absurd to think of the subject seriously. Leave the Order for the sake of another? With _him_? Perhaps there was some weakness she hadn't been fully aware of that led to this dark place of sharing a bed with Revan, but there was a limit. She would never give up being a Jedi, and Bastila would not, would _never_ , choose willingly to form a family with him.

That bash to the head had really damaged Revan. Or she was the one who had suffered head trauma.

What did he picture? Kids to come home to, to scoop up laughing at the front door, laughing until they were breathless. On a safe planet. Is that what she would have wanted? Or would she have sought out adventure and him the same? A life with him willingly having a romantic relationship that didn't consist of being worn down by constant contact and the grim knowledge that neither would survive this certain mishap? They hardly knew each other.

They would never have met if not for being on opposite sides of the war, brought together to end the other. It seemed cruel now, to have the awareness that things might have been different for them in another universe. Met as soldiers during peacetime, only soldiers, or two adventurers on a dig site. Him a student and them sharing a class. Revan in a gang and her a guard out to stop him.

Her mouth felt swollen still, and Bastila feared the onset of hiccups.

If only something as simple as being on the same side—no, Bastila was a Jedi. All she had done could not be thrown away. It just would be nice if things had gone differently, and Revan had returned to Republic space a victor and not attempted conqueror. Faced the Council and their judgment. Maybe they could have been friends, and him a Jedi Master that had learned a valuable lesson and could teach others. Did she want to be free of temptation, or wallow in it?

If mentally affected as he claimed might happen, would they find each other still?

"And just think: we've barely scratched the surface of what we can do." Hot breathe against her neck. "May I stay here with you tonight, Bastila?"

Bastila wanted to refuse him that, but why risk the argument. It was colder too, under the blankets alone. Why keep fighting, when she was so tired? Never mind everything. Somehow, they could close their eyes and sleep with the other so near.

A decision the Jedi regretted when she awoke wrapped in him.

Darkness might have been easier on them both. Alas, they broke the rules of Jedi and Sith under such strong beams even as they had nuzzled together in their sleep. Good enough to see every freckle and eyelash. The length and weight of his arm. In that light, Bastila could find her lost self. Take in their clasped hands tucked by her chin.

Sleep had refreshed her mind. Corrected new facts and remembered old ones.

_Never again._

_Not ever. Not even in nightmares._

Bastila would have slapped him, but that would mean waking him up, and Revan was dreadful conscious.

Asleep. _Asleep_ , however, he could be safely studied.

Rough-hewn and increasingly chiseled, his face was becoming too familiar to her. That spill of hair, almost curled, wavy, could be dangerously adorable. As was what had happened in what passed for night on this ship. Revan might, as he'd promised, _grow on her_. Like a terrible fungus. That pathetic facial hair he had been growing even resembled something porous you would find under a stump.

Hadn't there been lectures on this, at the Enclave? About what to do with another if they were in this position? The avoidance and careful measures and then the actual descriptions that had left the apprentices shaken. Shots and pills and disgusting physiology lessons and words of caution?

She was twenty-one and had never held hands in a romantic context before. Nor had she been lured into a closet by a curious boy to be kissed. Never before had Bastila thought of those facts, in depth, until experiencing it. And it turned out she had been lied to in regard to romance: whatever the dramas and holos and vast poetry and stories on the subject, it had _not been worth it._

Part of herself would be forever tainted. Not because of the physical aspect of what she'd done, but because of whom it had concerned. How could she have lost herself so?

If only this had been a fantasy, a dream brought on by physical trauma. If only she'd been captured and died fighting against Revan.

No, it definitely had not been worth it.

Especially not even when he woke up, and just smiled up at her.

"Enjoying the view?"

His arms still around her.

_Oh_ , what had she done?

"Bastila?"

She found the blankets to wrap around herself, and never mind how much of Revan was exposed now. "I think I'm going to be sick."

"Would you like the bucket? Uh...Bastila?

"Bastila?

"You okay?

"Are you alright, _dear_?

"...that's a no then?"

Eventually he gave up and left her there.

The span of time it took for her to be afraid of sharing a bed to being nervous when he left the bed was a minor thing.

Much too short.

Though Revan was at least thoughtful enough to bring her clothes (just her belt! That's exactly what she'd tell the Council, he only removed her _belt_ …and her gloves, and all of his clothes that he was still _not wearing_!) to her, though he made a show of not giving to her easily, and even trying to make her shift the blankets aside.

Her eyes felt bloodshot.

"Don't bother putting that on. Why even waste the energy? No one else will see you but me. You're not exactly being immodest. In fact, you might as well further strip down. Here, I can help."

Bastila slapped his hands aside, breathe hissing out. He looked down at her, amused, and she really did forget her Jedi self-control to let in yellow-sick hatred seep in.

"Oh, I get it. You're trying to punish me. Or, rather, both of us. You want to pretend this never happened? Why are you still lying?"

She responded with a glare.

"What now? Are you going to make me sleep, what, in the refresher?" He took her by the shoulders, though she looked away and tugged on another boot. "Are you _really_ going to not say anything to me? Am I that lucky? Was that all it took?"

The Jedi bit her tongue, and recited the Code, mentally, internally, endlessly.

"Bastila?" Revan was still smiling. " _Bastila?_ Is this how you want to play out our last days together?"

"I will choose how I want to spend my last days, and it will not involve being around you any more than necessary, Revan."

"Better." The Sith nodded. "Still, how about you let me take off that outfit and we'll just—"

It felt good to hit him. It really did reestablish how she felt and their entire relationship. Wrong, to derive pleasure from his pain, but at least Bastila wasn't receiving pleasure from him in another way. A thousand showers wouldn't even be enough. After what they'd done to each other in there, even the refresher was tainted.

"Fine." He grimaced, moving his bruised jaw. "If that's how you want to do it, then _go ahead_."

" _I will_. And put on _clothes."_

Revan smiled, as though he'd won something. All but strutted away to retrieve his clothes and proceeded to dress (slowly) in front of her, and Bastila really, really did regret untying him.

How little and how much everything had changed. When he stretched and she would have to watch, and not just to make sure he didn't grab a weapon. His glares took on a new power, though were rarer. Looks given different depth. Even separated and not touching, there was a different energy in the air. No third time, just twice…and a half, roughly. Some minor hand holding in their sleep. Long stares and that awful time period of watching him dress when he'd brought his clothes out of the refresher. All after having shared a bed for a few hours, platonically.

Talk of generalities filled the air, and now there was something close to peace between them. It was a lie, but at least it was an attempt at serenity, Bastila would think. Then look up and find him staring at her. Deep, close set eyes in that striking face. Blink and hope he looked away, another game, a match. One Bastila would not lose. The table separated them, thankfully.

He wanted her to give in.

To ask and request and want him.

Well, Bastila would not.

It had only been a day, and the experience would be forgotten eventually. She was most certainly not desperate for that to happen again. The more time passed the easier it would be. She might even forget what had happened. _Revan_? Charm me? Of course not.

There was a lull, as they ran out of words and were left staring at each other.

Revan made sure he looked the sane adult, in as much as possible considering he wore damaged Mandalorian armor and the remains of a ridiculous black robe. Holding his chin on his palm and trying for maturity. Of course he would make her fears seem so overblown. "Now, what _would_ you like to do next, Bastila?"

A thousand years ago, she had been cornered by snickering news crews armed with recording devices, and she recalled their smiles and derision when she all but confessed that she had never been on a single romantic outing, and certainly could not tell them the most romantic restaurant in Coruscant, and had never touched a man in any romantic way—and now she could have told them exactly the quickest way to make a human male go weak at the knees. Even if that male was a Sith Lord.

Bastila calmly explained the new/old rules. The very fact that they were having this conversation at all should horrify them both. He was Revan, and she was Bastila Shan, and they were both sane and not trapped in the refresher, and he was fully dressed and so—can we please remember that this is _crazy_. Horrify _both of them both_. "We cannot do that again."

Horrify down to the marrow.

He was undeterred. "Of course we can." Revan was only so literal when it suited him.

"But we _won't."_

That might be the most important discovery. They could do something, but chose otherwise. Choose. That was the lesson. Self-control.

Never again.

That was what she told herself, again and again, as she scrubbed at her skin in the refresher. _Never. Again._

We won't, she told her reflection. Then she'd step out and have to deal with his presence all over again.

Revan lounged like some feline creature in the sunshine. Haughty and lean and on his back too often with misleadingly sleepy eyes. Long legs thrown over something and arms crossed as he watched her. Sometimes with his armor and robe all but sliding off him, and Bastila was onto that little game and would ignore all of it. Swallow and turn away and finding something else to focus her attention upon. Anything. There must be something to do, besides…And that was how badly Revan had damaged her own mind.

He only wanted to do that again because she didn't.

Without anything to do, him loose and no longer needing care, time fell apart. The skeleton holding sanity up began to fail and like Revan she could sit in silence and stare at nothing. Forget all her meditations and chants and sit there with no thoughts and no peace. Only now, the Sith might snap to and drag her out of that fugue state. He might even physically touch her, lightly pinch her cheek to wake her and ask if she was alright as Bastila swatted at him.

"You should be flattered I care." He patted at her hair. "I don't understand why you pull back so. Since you did start this by grabbing me in the refresher."

"I did not!"

"You keep acting like a victim, but I was the one tied up and helpless for so long. Naked, even. And cold. Very cold."

"That is such a lie." Her finger came out to stab at him, and was bitten like he were a large playful kath hound. Bastila did her best to ignore that sensation. Revan looked idiotic, after all, on the end of her index finger like that. "You took advantage of my compassion."

He sucked on the end of the digit until she finally pulled it away. A long sigh. "Stop acting like you don't feel anything."

—what had been the point of that gesture? Why did she even _try_ to communicate with him? Her poor finger. Yet it had suffered through worse.

"I do have emotions. And they are of deep regret."

Deep and searing.

Revan looked nearly taken aback. "That's not a very nice thing. For either of us."

"Which is why we will just have to move on."

"You want to pretend it never happened?"

No. Yes! "I'd rather never let it happen again."

_Again._ Already, her mind was so eager to provide images and memories. His body warm against hers and the cold water, saying her name and so close. Practically fitted to each other in all the right way and she hadn't cared about what he had done previously or of the colors of his damned eyes and had been more focused on his hands and the expanse of his chest. She had _felt_ him, in some stunted way, through the Force, and that had been nearly as intimate as the rest.

The _Bond._ That was what had caused it. Yes, that made sense. It provided intimacy, whether they wanted it or not. Their connection was to blame. How else would they have found themselves locked in an intimate embrace?

"You still have second thoughts? Clearly I fell short of my goal. I have to make sure to change your mind." Yellow eyes met hers, smug and knowing.

Bastila knew she would regret letting him do _that_ certain act to her. "'Change my mind'?"

"About our relationship and your own status of being the good little Jedi. This is my fault. No, shut up. I should have made my feelings for you more apparent."

" _How_?"

Ugh. How?

Revan looked the polite schoolboy with that smile. The face of a man attending a university, and with plenty of female interest. Someone Bastila would never have come into contact with. Perhaps a Jedi from the old holos, one never filled with hubris and revenge that could be admired safely as they had died two hundred years previously. A soldier that had perhaps 'caught her eye' as they said, a harmless crush that dissolved into something nearly maternal as Bastila watched him from a safe distance.

If he had only been those, she would have been less likely to want to both sleep with him and be ashamed of that fact.

"You should have been wooed. More slowly seduced, if the situation could allow it." He was nodding to himself. Of course you would want to be chased. That would have made you feel better about all of this."

She had not been _seduced_. Manipulated and mistreated and confused and…other things, but not seduced. "Are you claiming I was playing 'hard to get'?"

"Would it have been better if I had turned you away before? What do you want from me, Bastila? Ask."

"I want you to _stop_."

That sharp jaw tightened. "You're not some victim! You are an active person in this! You chose and no amount of deranged self-pity will change that."

Revan did not prod but only waited. That might make it worse.

He could not be trusted. Revan the Butcher. Recall that title and what he'd done. All the deaths and destruction.

They would sit at that table and drink tart tea. Take each other in. Take their state in.

He was staring at her. "You are very young. But not entirely stupid."

"No, I am not."

"You can influence entire armies. You have attempted to fight me in single combat. You are the Republic's only hope of stopping the Sith and thus far you have done your best in every battle. You know we will die here, and still refuse to have any regrets. But this _, this,_ makes you falter? No, I don't believe that."

She was nearly—very nearly—embarrassed.

_Flattered._

(You chose.)

"For someone as headstrong as you, this can't scare you."

"I will not forget myself again."

"Ah. But what if you aren't forgetting yourself. What if you are _finding_ yourself?"

"Finding what, that I'm—" She stopped.

"What? Not such a good Jedi after all? My _lover_? Is that what you find so alarming? What others might call us? No one is ever going to see either of us alive again."

"Our Bond is to blame. Even with that collar. You know that."

"Does it matter why we feel this way? Knowing the cause doesn't change any of it."

"Of course it matters why. It matters so we know not to give into our feelings."

"Do you actually think this is the dark side, Bastila? I know it is not. The dark side is fear, anger, rage. I am not afraid." That flicker of amusement. "I am not even that angry."

But she was, oh, Bastila was so afraid, so resentful and confused…

"What we share has nothing to do with the Force. For once. Have you ever heard that love is apolitical?"

She looked at him as though meeting for the first time. Anew, she took in the unnatural eyes and wave to his hair and full confident stare back. "You are so very different from what I expected you to be."

Revan smiled around the rim of his mug. "I get that a lot."

She sipped at her own tea. "For one, I was expected you to be taller."

"Cruel." It was horrible how attractive the small grin on his face looked. He veered towards handsomeness, and it wasn't her fault that she noticed that. "But I know you want me, Bastila."

"You disgust me."

"We can both pretend that's true, if it makes you feel better."

Well, that just settled it: they were not going to share a bed ever again after this.

Platonically or not. She would be magnanimous and polite, unyielding. Revan could have the bed. Bastila would rather sleep in the shower than be with him so close. Close enough to smell the soap on his skin and nearly feel his hair and the heat of his breathe against her neck. His arm thrown around her, warm and solid.

Bastila turned back to her lectures. There was a new comfort in them. Especially the parts on non-attachment and even celibacy. The selfish desires and wants could be let go and gladly, they told her. Lapses could be forgiven. No one would know, as even he'd told her. Just sit here and read in peace.

Revan reached out and took the datapad from her.

"Will you look at me?"

It wasn't so hard to stare through someone, as her own Master had been prone to do.

"I am."

No longer was she trapped with a tied-up Sith Lord. Now Revan was amok and determined to charm and seduce her into more acts of debauchery and madness. Bastila watched all of it from a great distance.

"Not the way you did before."

His depressed looks might be worse than his leering. That _humanity_ in his pitying smile. I know, I know, but I can't help it. Revan almost looked fetching, in his own way. You couldn't believe he cared, still, but noticed now the ropey muscles and cleft chin and exact shade of his hair. Force, but he did look better after he'd shaved. Downright striking.

Bastila had been prepared for the Dark Jedi, perhaps even for the prisoner, and had dealt with the sick man, the leering asinine comments, but not for this. Not for Revan trying to make her comfortable.

He would ask if she was alright, and offer up the blanket for warmth. Let her use the refresher first. Kept his comments to a minimum.

They stumbled around each other for an hour, for two hours, and knowing that there would be so many hours that followed these. Even with that collar, their Bond allowed his thoughts to seep through. Dreams became fumbling nightmares that she would force herself to wake from. His space would have to be reexamined and Bastila hated the disappointment in the pit of her stomach. A swill of hormones and curiosity.

She was having a hard time meeting his eyes.

'Dinner' was served at the table, and Revan was determined to act like two normal people sitting down to eat. He made sure to wait until she took the first bite before speaking. "Sorry. No candles to make this more romantic. Perhaps I can find a way to dim the lights?" Somehow, he managed to dissolve her appetite.

"Fine. Go ahead and deny yourself. You'll crack. I'm not the one that's obsessed and neurotic." Revan made a show of leaning back.

Lies! "Really? Am I misremembering, or were you not the one that started flirting with me? That wants to have a romantic relationship?"

"Yes, and you said that you would not be afraid of being tempted by me."

"I—am not. We had a minor failing. That is all."

Twice. Maybe three times.

Bastila tried not to blanch. "If we both just continue to be shipmates and only that, everything will be fine."

"'Shipmates'? Did I get de-promoted?"

How could he ever be a friend? You trusted friends and cared and watched out for them, as much as you could without growing overly attached? Perhaps that was what she felt for Revan however. Hadn't she taken him down after all? Worried and spoken to and fed and watered and then, then… "Friends then."

"Should we shake hands on that?"

He held out his hand, while she stared at it. Still covering with that heavy glove, hidden and strong. "That isn't necessary."

"Are you that afraid, Padawan?"

"Not of you. Fine. If you insist."

Two pumps, and then—and then she was unable to pull away. Physically unable. He clutched her hand in his cold palms, larger than her own. Now he would break her wrist, pull the thumb from its socket and peel her fingernails off. Finally assault her physically as he had mentally and emotionally. Force, but she was tired of fighting. Before even saving Revan, she was tired of this war that drained everyone and had killed so many.

Here he was, the cause of all that.

Revan was giving her those molten topaz eyes. "I hurt you."

"Yes."

The Sith brought her hand to his mouth, brushing the knuckles. His breathe warm and even. "I won't apologize."

"No. You wouldn't."

"This was is larger than either of us. It's only to set up for the larger fight. It was necessary that I turn on the Republic. A structure with too many cracks in the foundation cannot last for long. You know that. I won't say that I'm sorry, but I can empathize with what you've seen and done.

"But I will say it hasn't been all bad. You were able to hone your vaulted gift, after all. Battles define us, and conflict strengthens us." His smile was a cheerful fire. "And it did bring us together."

"Let go."

"No. I won't." A wet tongue lapped at her knuckles, his lips closing around the forefingers and _sucking._ How was that skin so sensitive? That expression so _serious_. It was a strange sight, Revan applying his mouth for something other than arguing, and how were her own hands so unfamiliar to her, and why did this keep happening?

Bastila wretched it away, watching him grimace as she wiped it on her trousers.

"I thought we were supposed to be friends now?"

"Friends don't do that!"

"They can." He looked so happy. That might make it all the worse. Him so smugly pleased and expectant, even _warm_ dare she say, and the outstretched hand waiting for her...it was like something from a bad Holo, and neither could find a way to turn the recorders off or even a new script. She would be the reluctant one that asked for time and him the aggressive, firm, confident one, and Bastila despised them both for that. She had no experience in this, but what did it say about Revan that he was resorting to the same tired roles as her?

The costume was beginning to chafe, Bastila had to say. As well as this: "I don't want that type of relationship, Revan."

"As though I wanted any of this!"

"I still don't want any of it! You! I don't want anything more to do with _you_!"

"Fine." Revan was getting up in a huff. "Stay away from me. And perhaps you can control your dreams a little more effectively, Shan?"

Blind-white hate. "Those were your dreams!"

He found his favorite weapon: "It's your fault we're even here. You should have left me there."

They both had headaches. Hers might be worst though. "I did my best to give you another chance at life."

"Too bad."

"Yes."

"At least we'll be dead soon anyway," he promised.

"Yes. Most likely."

"And you started it with the way you stare at me."

She slumped downward. "Please do shut up."

"Make me."

Bastila couldn't even gag him now.

Instead she was left with Revan wandering around her, once tugging at one of her braids ("I had to do it, just once.") and trying to take her datapad and looting through the shelves ("Is this wine yours?") and poking with interest at the bomb she'd disabled. He asked redundant questions just to bother her and stalked around the ship in between those interrogations. Generally making a nuisance of himself and startling her with the full extent of his height and reach and how disturbing he looked with that armor. She kept the lightsaber clipped to her belt while he rolled his eyes.

Or sprawl out on the bed, all comfortable with her pillow under his head and long legs comfortably stretched out. "They will make a pyre for us. Say words about how brave you were. About what a waste this was. Their poor gifted Padawan. She would have made a great Jedi Master. So wise. Except for still not being a Knight at her advanced age."

Bastila turned her head, slowly. She knew she was giving him a long look, the type of look that her mother would give to some fool wasting her time as she hurried through her shopping. "And what would they do for you?"

"Spit at my name. 'Thank the Force we got rid of that bastard.' A few Jedi in exchange for Darth Revan. That's a good deal, they'll consider. Except for when Malak crushes any insurgencies and continues the war without me."

"And then?"

"Then they'll miss you dearly." His expression was downright affectionate. "Without your gift, it will only be a matter of time before the onslaught of the Empire's fleet finally overwhelms the Republic."

"About those ships…"

"The sacrifice was too high after all. You were the closest thing they had to a real viable threat, and even you were…unpolished, let's say? Young. Still untested and new to command. Though you did try your best." The kind looks he gave were the _worst._

"We will die soon, won't we? Why not tell me where you came across your fleet?"

"They may even long for me, after Malak destroys more civilians and imposes harsh penalties on rebelling planets."

"For the sake of my curiosity," she injected.

"I have never bartered a bad deal." He reasoned, rubbing his chin. "We can trade."

"In exchange for what?"

No, the kind looks he gave weren't the worst; the heated ones were.

"Oh. No. Revan, I would _never do that."_

"Really? Even to find out where I amassed my huge army? That's rather selfish of you."

"You are a despicable, _disgusting_ man." Bastila shuddered.

"Or how about because it felt so satisfying to finally give in and set aside the Jedi Code? Give into all your baser instincts?" He could make just lying on the bed an insidious, lecherous act. Push his face to the pillow and then look like something from an obscene Holo that could not be aired. All pouting lips and stubble and fine bone structure. Completely dressed and yet nothing that could be exposed to any decent person.

That bed was completely and utterly tainted now.

Maybe she could sleep at this table now. Surrender more territory to Revan. So be it. Just let him have it. Sit and ignore him. Bastila could do that. Until the words at her datapad wiped clean of smudges from his hands blurred together. Then he got up and led her to the bed and settled on the floor next to it. One minor act of kindness that made her remember past Masters and sympathetic eyes. It was almost nice, just to know he was capable of one decent act, and the sight of him curled up under his robe nearly made Bastila feel guilty for treading on him when she woke up.

"Sorry." Her hands were on his side as she tried to regain control of bruised feet. "I didn't see you there."

Revan mumbled something, tugged at her hand, and just rolled over.

It was their finest moment, and one that he seemed to forget when he woke up.

Then he was all awareness and insults.

He sat at the other end of this tiny table, and pouted when she ignored him. Ignore his looks and entire presence and when he tugged alarmingly at his collar and glowered, then sneered at her. Ignore him speaking. You must. "I thought we were 'friends'?"

Or not ignore and instead stupidly insist on speaking to him. "That requires trust."

"What more do I have to do to win you over?" But Bastila could ignore his leers, at least.

It was hard to avoid each other, really.

There were few distractions.

Oh, yes, she could read and he could inspect and curse the broken ship and then declare them both to be dead in a month—but then Bastila would argue with that, and they would fight with the various flaws of the other repeated. There would be something close to hate then, shockingly safe disgust and disdain. And then Revan would ruin any nice, understandable venom by telling her how beautiful she looked annoyed or something even worse.

The middle of her back would prickle. Small hairs on the back of her neck stood up. She would not need to turn her head to know he was watching her. His thoughts were close to the surface, though Bastila didn't dare trying to make them out. He would analyze her from head to toe, endlessly. Even when she told him to stop, that never lasted long.

Sometimes, even, sometimes Bastila herself was distracted by him. It was understandable for her to keep an eye on him, but she would forget to be afraid or mad at Revan during those certain moment.

The belt of black fabric and silver loop that crossed below his waist kept catching her eye. Bastila hadn't spied much on other people, and had no talent for it; he kept catching her. She had never dealt with anything quite like this before. The Jedi had warned her of his charm and ability to deceive, the torture technique he employed, the things he might say to worm free of his capture. But they had neglected to mentioned he had a sense of humor, liked to tease, and was capable of affection. No one had mentioned that you could actually almost like his hideous smile or grow attached to his laugh.

She liked his voice. She liked the way his way looked when the datapad bathed it blue. Revan made a strong cup of tea ("Exactly how you like your men, hm? Bitter and dark?") and wanted to help improve her stance and asked of the Academy and Coruscant. He was even (and it pained her to say this) sometimes humorous with his self-deprecating remarks and dry comments. She liked the bony wrists and the shape of his eyes and would have liked kissing him, yes, she would.

Sometimes, she forgot he was Revan the Butcher who was responsible for an entire war, for all those deaths and ruined lives and still claimed he only attacked those that deserved it. Sometimes, Bastila let herself think he was a normal man.

But then another part of her would remember the bombs and the scattered bodies and the weeping of those a little too close to those 'military targets.'

Yet any fights on her part were undercut by knowing what they had done to each other. He had beaten her. Yes, Bastila had captured and dragged him here, but he had worked loose his restraints and found himself chasing her into the corners of the ship to avoid his stares and hands.

So the Jedi would lie there, or sit there, stare blankly ahead, and add the hours and minutes while Revan cursed in all the languages he possessed as he tangled wires and reminded her that this was all her fault. Close her eyes.

This was not how she expected her life to go.

She remembered her father's face and voice, and how he'd towered her when he picked her up. Crying her first night as she understood that this grassy planet was her home now and that she'd never see her family again. Seeing Coruscant for the first time after the years spent among low gentle Dantooine architecture. When she'd gone behind the yolk of a real ship and finding out that she could do this. The first time she'd been given the most minor of commands and the exemplary job she'd done at protecting that diplomat. Her first time in combat, and not hesitating as her fellow apprentices' all feared might happen to them; Bastila had been so proud to have followed through with her attack.

All that she was, now reduced to memories to replay while listening to a psychotic Sith Lord pester her over sharing the bed, and no, Revan, they could not share it together.

Remember attacking Darth Revan the Butcher.

Remember her first brush with romantic feelings towards someone. Uncomfortable and never fully acknowledged until now when it was not safer, but for lack of anything else to inspect. It had been nothing but a childish, safe, crush. When she'd been twelve and him the same, sweet and solemn, and dead at sixteen from a squabble in the Outer Rim that hadn't even involved the Mandalorians. Bastila hardly remembered his name. By then she had long since moved passed any 'crushes' and was glad to not be attracted to anyone as more warnings of self-restraint were given to all the apprentices. She could, with a searing hated, remember her sardonic amusement at those lectures of 'self-control' and abstinence.

Her first kiss would have been from Revan's hungry mouth days ago if she'd allowed it, and the exact memory of the touches was already confused and indistinct. Another person might have wept, she supposed. This was it. A hodgepodge of confusing bittersweet images interlaced with ones she'd rather forget entirely.

Bastila would think of his flagship and remember the fires and the dead Sith, the dead Jedi all around them. All it would have taken was a single wrong turn, a different hallway, pausing at the wrong moment, and they wouldn't be here. She can nearly feel the heavy metal under her boots. Left this time, not right.

Now she would never see Dantooine, the Masters, the Fleet she was sworn to protect. Only the person she had been fighting for so long was left with her.

Though at least she still had the Force.

As Revan griped and whined about. "What, do you think I need the Force to kill you? I don't even need to wait until you're asleep. I could just strangle you with one of those braids."

"You could not."

"Or beat you to death with that datapad. Or put poison in your tea. Or jump you in the shower you're your back turned and you completely naked and vulnerable and –what were we talking about?"

She opened her eyes.

The worst. Left rather than right at that one hallway, that's all it would have taken. He was the _worst._

Revan even hogged the refresher.

Alright, she would think, it's been another half hour. Time to check on him. Perhaps he slipped. Perhaps he is being something other than obnoxious?

Bastila knocked, politely, at the only door left to them. "Are you almost done?"

"Yes." His voice was all strained, annoyed.

She should not ask. She just shouldn't. That would be the smart thing. But this was the third time in the last twelve hours he'd done this. "What are you doing?"

"Reliving our memories."

"What?"

"I'm remembering us together. When you wanted me."

What did that mean—krif.

The narrow cockpit was the farthest place away from that refresher, and that's where Bastila spent the next hour. Why had she asked? At least she couldn't hear him. Ugh. But she could nearly feel it, and her own mind was so unhelpfully supplying her own memories of what had happened in there, and was glad to offer up images of what Revan was doing right now.

He probably wasn't even doing that. Just another jab to unnerve her.

Even after he came out, smugly resplendent, and she knew what he'd been doing, Bastila still clung to hope otherwise.

There was too much life in him. Cynical and angry, depressed and homicidal. But he _burned_ , aglow with emotion. Even as he confessed that he couldn't return to his Empire if he wanted to, and he did want that more than anything. Alas, "I would be a laughing stock, wouldn't I? Saved by you, a Jedi Padawan."

Bastila couldn't keep from smiling.

He beamed, in that sleazy terrible way of his. No wonder he had worn that mask. "You like me, Shan. You know you do."

She snorted and looked away and despised both of them for her amusement.

"That's why you let me go. You _like_ me. What's wrong with that? We can be friends, can't we?"

"Bad things tend to happen to your 'friends,' Revan."

"…that is true. Maybe you can change that. You've ruined so many things for me now."

That might be a compliment. Bastila had done what all those Jedi Masters and Sith Lords alike had not been able to do. She had ended his mad reign while those before had perished in the attempt.

Then Revan had to ruin it. "Maybe we'll land on some desolate little planet. Or something tropical. Fruit and adorable creatures to frolic in the sun. We'll have to repopulate it."

Those Jedi Masters and Sith Lords had gotten off easy.

They had been spared a slow agonizing death spent with Revan poking them and asking if they knew how often they stared at him.

If only there had been another person here. Especially one of those Jedi Master. Bastila could ask them so many questions on how to handle this situation. You didn't warn me that he would be like this, that he was capable of this.

His hands touched her back, and he made a face when she jumped. "You have nothing to fear from me."

"Is that a fact? How can I ever trust you, Revan? All I've heard about you is your fall to the dark side. How you betrayed all you were sworn to protect."

"You want to know more about me? Where I was born, who my parents were? I already told you my favorite color. None of that matters, does it?"

Bastila turned, not leaving her back to him. "I don't even know who you are. What you are."

He was coming closer, allowing little space. "I am the Dark Lord of the Sith. The neck of the Republic has been under my boot for months now. My best friend had a nickname and that was Squint and I mutilated him after he tried to kill me. The first time. Things might have been better if I had died then. For you, anyway. Would you like to know my age? The name I was born with? Maybe even I don't remember it. Maybe everything has become a bad dream that I do not wakeup from."

Revan's eyes were wide, aware and still terrible, still yellow and gold and unblinking. He had been waiting for her to face him. Waiting so long, he had whispered to her while he had thought her asleep.

"And maybe I was born in the Outer Rim. My parents might have even been Mandalorians. I believed that once I could stop the worse war the galaxy had ever seen, but I failed. I even thought I could one day see the end of the Republic, and that you would help me destroy it. You would be at my side as fire rained down."

Bastila felt the cold wall hit her back.

"You. I see you in black, Bastila, and I see you so sure of yourself, and yet still so not ready. You in the sunshine of that planet you have never been and will never go.

"Maybe I've been weakened by my time as a Sith rather than strengthened because I grew too reliant on the dark side. Maybe I'm entranced by a certain dark-haired temptress, a woman that has no idea what she's doing…or not." Revan moved away so quickly she had hardly time to blink.

Then snort in derision. Then despise the pause.

Temptress.

Preposterous.

Revan had done this before, no doubt. Luring others into a false sense of calm.

Or perhaps he truly was an idiot who had no idea how to charm her. For all his bragging, it was possible that even Revan had less of a clue on how to approach this situation. Even as he pursued her.

That was why he trailed around her. Why he bothered her by letting his hands linger near hers. Then he would shave and ask for an inspection.

"Your boots are scuffed."

Revan just stared at her.

Sometimes that was all he did. Just sit there and stare and judge her. Or walk around and hiss in her ear. "They'll send us to rot together in the brig. Maybe we'll be together in a Jedi prison. Share a cell. Bunks. Bunk."

She was rather busy peeling apart a protein bar to even look up. "Oh wouldn't that be lucky."

"You could stab me in the prison yard."

"This is prison."

With a short sentence, but one that would last a lifetime.

"That's a sudden morbid turn."

Then Revan stole half that bar and nearly had the Jedi Sentinel chasing him around the cramped freighter.

Once, he shoved her off the bunk. Once he jumped out of the refresher at her while she paced around, and she nearly screamed. Once he tried to wrestle her and he only gave up after she remembered 'strategic resistance' and went limp.

He was a monster, a child, an idiot, a strange man that tried to tempt her into kissing him and tried to get her to break her hours of silence and meditation right next to the weapon, legs curled and him pacing and muttering. All of those things, and that was something Bastila had to take into account to explain why Revan dropped to his knees to announce: "You are the shield."

Bastila turned and opened her eyes, distracted. Was he referring to her time with the Republic? "What?"

"The plating of my heart."

"What are you going on about?"

"Without you, I would be helpless."

What was that bizarre cadence? Was he reciting something? Was that _poetry_? _What was wrong with him?_ "Shut up."

What type of poetry—no, Bastila would ignore him. All of this had to be ignored. An inhale. There is no passion, there is peace. There is no emotion, there is only purple prose.

"I supposed I should have started with the erotic poetry first then."

That 'night', he slept in the refresher, alone and hopefully very cold and uncomfortable. While Bastila fumed, alone, in the bed, tossing and turning—only to wake up a few scant hours later, sore, Revan was sitting beside her. Nothing could make her hold back her yelp of alarm.

"So scared."

He patted her head while she slapped at him and warned him, "Revan."

"You weren't so afraid of me before." Revan took her hand. That same tainted hand. She'd held her lightsaber with it, and had a Sith Lord kiss it.

"I have never felt as ease in your presence."

"Then maybe you're the one that I should be avoiding, since you're so clearly falling to the dark side."

"Yes. Please avoid me."

His thumb ran over her fingernails. "Ah, but then how will I bring you back to the light side?"

"Even as a joke, that is grotesque."

"You can't atone for what you've done without someone to help, now can I?"

He was a mockery of everything she stood for. If there was ever a person a Jedi could hate, it was Revan.

"Why did you spare me again?"

"We hoped that you would have a change of heart. That you would join the Jedi Order again and help us against the Empire you founded and bring about the end of the war you started."

"Such lofty goals."

"That's what we hoped would happen."

Revan inspected her fingers, tugging them lightly, tracing the knuckles and callouses. The gloves he wore were cold. "You would have been better off trying to join me and then backstabbing me after an appropriate amount of time."

"I would never join the Sith."

"That's what I said. So long ago." He didn't look smug or condescending or lascivious.

"Why did you?"

"Maybe, all I wanted was to see what would happen if I stopped being a Jedi."

He met her gaze evenly. They shared dream, feelings, emotions, wants…Revan didn't even want to judge her, not anymore. Just accept. All of this. What he'd done and who he was and what she was supposed to do. He had already accepted their ending soon.

Now he held her hand and wanted to lie with her again.

It was wrong to hold a grudge. But it was wrong to be friends with someone that had done what he had, and still would not apologize for it. She was Jedi and him Sith and yet he flirted and wanted to be friends. Nothing made sense.

He could have been a man she'd met under saner circumstance.

What if she could see him as something other than Revan the Butcher? Again, forget his title and the meaning of his name, and just accept that they were stuck with each other and there was nothing but this right here and each other? This man right here that cared and could joke and smiled at her when Bastila reluctantly laughed.

Could he just be another person, one that might even be kind and lovely, and her lover? Could she accept that, and want him in return?

This was Darth Revan? Truly? The Butcher? And was she still Bastila Shan, too self-righteous and arrogant to accept other's help let alone ask for it? Two people, not Jedi or Sith, just two people trapped and wounded and lost.

No.

Bastila would not be some victim. She would be—an active participant in this madness. No. not that either.

Their choices were so limited, and she could feel that panic rising up as she had the first time she'd seen the state of the ship.

To cling to hatred and fear would only damn her to the darkness, but what else could she do when the alternative seemed to be a slide closer to him?

…was that what he wanted? Them both dragged down and pathetic? Revan wanted her to match his own state. He wanted her to hold his hand and go on about how handsome and wonderful he was and how right and just his cause was, and oh, yes, Revan, she wanted to join him.

Or perhaps the night spent on tile had broken him.

She pulled her hand away.

"When you stopped being a Jedi, you only hurt everyone around you. The galaxy as a whole was harmed due to you." There was a rising, burning pain in her chest, but it didn't belong entirely to her. "Did you think I could forget that? Do you think I'm some idiot that wants to pretend you aren't a Sith? I will not forget your name, Revanchist."

"I—Bastila." Darth Revan was trying to find something. Some tone and expression that would allow her to just give up. He covered an eye when he rubbed at his forehead. Disheveled and confused.

The awkwardness was what moved her.

Physically and emotionally.

To the point of locking the door behind her.

The same door she had seen tens or perhaps hundreds of times before. The same lock and switch. That same light. That same mirror.

Everything here was the same. Absolutely nothing was different.

She _hated_ this refresher. There. It was out. She hated it here. The narrow space, the shower that still worked, the cold tile and metal and dirty mirror. She hated this ship too. What type of idiot kept a broken ship in their bay for anyone to stumble on, and what moron would trust a Sith not to turn on them when they turned their back, especially when it was on an apprentice that had a reputation for brutality? Even stopping Revan wouldn't finish this endless war, there would still be Malak to fight and that endless stream of ships that Revan _still_ refused to discuss.

She hated _him_ too. Oh, _him_ _especially._ He was the cause of everything in her life being ruined. He had caused the death of her Master. Because of him, she would never be a Knight. Because of him, Bastila was going to die here, a Padawan that had gotten in over her head. If she so much as stubbed a toe, it was his fault. Somehow, it would be. No, it definitely would be, because if he didn't literally push her than it would still be his fault for them being here in the first place.

And now he was trying to be her friend.

The Jedi could nearly collapse here around the idiot pain of rejection that had no business being there. That was all on Revan, and it was feigned and exaggerated for effect.

Still.

A shudder. That surprise on his face had made it all the more attractive.

She much preferred his swaggering confidence. That could be disdained and repulsed. There had been plenty of braggarts in the military, and they had never impressed her. Even the jokes could have been dealt with and ignored easily enough. But when he came to her so earnest and serious, so willing to put himself out for her reject him—it became a little harder to do that.

Revan had tortured people. He had murdered countless innocents. His own people he had turned on, before even he'd disappeared and returned with his countless war ships. His own best friend had been ruined by him, in so many ways. Anything he said he would follow through with, and all he promised was death and destruction.

Once there had been an impassioned young Knight that had wanted to stop the slaughter.

But now there was an angry man that wanted only to destroy and break what wasn't his.

But now there was…there was whoever she saw every day.

He had nothing left but her at this point. Whatever he thought she was, what Bastila's role was supposed to be, the part she was supposed to play, that was what Revan had to cling to so he was not so alone.

And she…had even less. Revan was incapable of caring properly for another, it was beyond him entirely. Such emotion had been lost during the battles and tortures. He had been responsible for her own Master's death, if not personally then the next best thing. A shudder again worked through her. She felt sick, she might just vomit right now, right now.

But it passed. Bastila was still alive and had no one else but herself to rely on for support.

If she stayed in here long enough, Revan might come in after her. Break down the door and drag her out. She was such a fool that grabbing the lightsaber or any other weapon hadn't even occurred to her until now. He could cut his way into here, and leap onto her, degrade her as he had wanted and he _had_ wanted that, for all his supposed charm; it had been in his eyes.

Did he want her to join him as a Dark Jedi, or was it just some baser want?

What she had done with him. How could she do it? With him? With _him_!

There had been an order in the chaos, rising, climbing, the peak and then the tumble, the hard shove, over where Bastila had fallen, helpless. Breathless. Clinging to his shoulders with one free limb. Knuckles digging into the base of his spine. _Revan._ Refuting and confirming that fact. Oh, oh. The knots undone that sent her falling. It had been the answer to every question. Released to tumble. Bastila would have fallen over, _swooned_ , if she hadn't clung to him so hard.

Drowning again. In so many things. His skin, his face, his eyes, his wet hair. In this care. She wanted to make him laugh and scrub his ears, and then kiss them. All of him. So, this was open fondness with another person, one who was happy to oblige and return with enthusiasm. A great motivator they called him, agreed all round including her though Bastila still didn't think much of his speeches.

This was not a retreat, but just a moment of reprieve. Ten minutes. Forty-five to two hours. What of it? She deserved it to study her outstretched legs and own failing that had led to having Darth Revan allowed so close to herself. What would her Master have said? All of the Masters?

Except, even when she shut herself inside the refresher, Revan would get on his stomach and whisper to her through what cracks he could find. "Is this just about physical aspect of our relationship? You yourself asked who was more afraid of intimacy, myself or you?"

Could he sense her thoughts? The Bond, even with that collar? Or had he taken it off already? Was he freed completely? Why did he still wear it. He must know how to remove it already.

"We've both given enough to the Order and the Republic.

"Don't scoff; I served my time. Why shouldn't we have this?

"Are you ashamed because of what we did, or how exhilarating it was? To forget about the Code and embrace your emotions? Did they tell you that you were supposed to feel this way, Padawan? You think I don't know of their lessons? That you weren't supposed to feel anything. Since I was a _n infant_ , they were there to tell me what to do. Then when I stopped feeling anything, I supposedly 'fell to the dark side.' Do you see?

"But I can remember my emotions now, here, with you. Will you _listen_ to me?"

But Bastila did, and that was part of the problem. She heard and understood what he felt, what he meant.

And Revan felt the same in return.

"I could teach you so many things that have nothing to do with the Force. All you have to do is ask."

Then he seemed to give up. Left her alone for an hour, two hours, just left her to stew and lean against the door.

Why was she now the one hiding and trapped?

But then she imagined opening the door and decided she would rather stay here. She just preferred it here than out there with him. There was nothing outside there to interest her, and no reason to get up and leave this narrow snug room. She had a sink to drink from and all she needed was water to stay alive. Water, and quiet to meditate.

At least her limbs were free and she could stand and walk.

But Revan always came back.

Oh, Force, must he always talk so much?

"You're rather pretend it never happened and just give up and die? Is that what you're doing? They told you to stop fighting, didn't they? To go peacefully. That you should be passive in your last moments and go easily into the Force with all grace?

" _Never stop fighting_.

"With me, or with the Force. You are not just going to give up. Bastila, you are that type. You will die with your teeth in an enemy's throat, gods damn you. I won't let you just pretend to be some limp self-righteous Jedi. You aren't, and you know that.

"You don't want to be with me again? Fine. I won't push the point. But don't leave me here to die alone. I might as well be in chains again. At least then you spoke to me."

He growled. "Are you going to answer me? Should we communicate through elaborate knocks?"

"Bastila?

" _Bastila?"_

There was no escape. There was only this.

The tile really was very uncomfortable, and cold. But still she could sleep on it, she could. So she repeated to herself.

She awoke facedown in the refresher.

Bastila groaned. If only she'd awoken at the Academy, with a gasp and the familiar plain walls. Or even in Revan's ship. Captured, and this had all been a feverish dream to escape that hellish torture. Lightning would hit her, and wake her from this.

Please.

But nothing she seemed to do would stop this nightmare from continuing. Curled up next to the door, staring groggily at it, she wondered why he hadn't yet taken the lightsaber to it and cut his way in.

Her pain must have awoken him. Stirred her to him, as he smelled blood in the water. Bastila could see him getting up from the warm bed, blanket and robes around him.

"Bastila?"

Or perhaps Revan had even been waiting there.

"Are you coming out soon?

"Well, perhaps I'll just finish off all this tea then…

"Still sulking? So be it. That means you won't interrupt me then, finally?"

Revan sniffed and settled in. From his pauses, she guessed maybe he really did have a mug of tea. Probably her own, with the chip at the bottom. He would take a perverse pleasure in that. The shared contact. See his mouth curling into a smile around the rim, steam around his face. That hair would hang into his face, in a lank dark fall.

He asked and prodded, and Bastila knew that she was the one that was now tied up.

"Who was your Master? Why do you never speak of them?"

She had once met a drunken writer at some Republic gathering, unrelenting and unpleasant and the most honest person she would meet at such meetings. He had thought her a girl and a dumb one. 'They will tell stories about this. About you.' Drink in hand and a funny-serious look in his eyes, as amused as Revan always was as he told her of how Holos would be made of this.

In the war, the one she had fought in, she had not understood the actions of some. People who wandered around in their pajamas. An old woman cleaning the windows of a building that was left standing amongst all the rubble. A male or female, species humanoid, sobbing, repeating over and over again as they wandered the streets, "Everything is dead, everything is dead." Children in shoes falling apart, dirty-faced as they tended a garden. The homeless gathering what they could. They had knew her as a stranger not because of her clothes or her weapon, but because she was the only one looking around, still capable of shock.

You got up and went on.

Was this Revan's version of that? Corrupting Jedi, even now.

"I smell guilt."

You let that happen. What the Mandalorians did, you learned from them. They were defenseless. You only gave everyone more death.

"You want revenge. Is that it? Then come out here and face me. I'll even let you use the lightsaber, to make things more even. Let's end this little game."

But she wasn't ready for that. Not yet.

If she did face Revan, could she defeat him? He was sickened and weakened from his previous injuries and couldn't use the Force.

I think I could.

He was talking. Again. "Do you remember when we first met?"

"You were going to kill me." On the flagship.

"No, not t _hen_. And I wouldn't have killed you. Just captured and broken to better fit my purposes. What? You're the better Jedi than I, I won't deny that. But I was referring to the actual first time we met, before that fateful day you ruined both our lives."

"We never met before then," she correctly, dully.

"Yes, we did. How could you forget? I remember it quite well." Revan was settling in. "I felt you, all the way across the battlefield. It was amazing, nay, _inspiring_ , to see so many disillusioned and afraid. That was when I knew I had to win you to my side. You would have been brilliant, unleashed and unshackled. You _are_."

Her gift. Her curse.

"Flattery won't work on me."

"Are you still trying to pretend you're humble?" Revan asked.

"As though you can talk. Your name is not Revan the Meek."

"We both know you're as arrogant and self-righteous as only a Jedi can be."

"What about the Sith? Are _they_ so self-effacing?"

"You want pity then? Poor you. Having finally given into your carnal wants."

"Get away from me! I wish I had left you to die on your ship! I wish—"

I wish I had never saved that. That we both had died.

At least he wasn't trying to turn her to the dark side—or was he?

The Masters had said that he was capable of superficial charm and had spent so much time breaking and turning Jedi that nothing he said could be fully trusted. Not unless it was taken under some duress—which was one of the reasons why they had taken neural collars.

You. It's your fault. You made me laugh. You made me forget what you are.

There is only the Force, he would tell her. There is only power. There is only each other. There is only us. There is only this. The mockery of the Jedi Code.

What was worse, him wanting her to become his new apprentice, or lover?

He couldn't turn her. Bastila knew that now.

"That I had died? Then you'd be alone? Or is it suicide you want? Obliteration. Hear I thought you weren't such a coward, Bastila."

"Why do you care?"

He wasn't charming at all. He was infuriating, and awful, hideous, confusing and chaotic and resentful. The quickness of his smile, with his hair ruffled, the pull of his gaze. Powerful. Insane.

"There is a connection between us." Revan began, labored. "You are the one that created it. Thoughtlessly."

Oh but she hated that cliché idea that despite everything they could somehow be romantically involved. Just because she had dragged his dying body back and that she had to listen to his rants while she read aloud from her datapad. Because he smiles at me. Because I smiled back.

"Do you think there is no effect?"

It was nothing.

Something bigger than them both. The Force. Power that neither could control. For all their power, all the fights that spanned so many planets, the little squabbles back and forth when they had fought on the battlefield, separated by the dying and murderous and frightened, this was what they had been reduced to: bad threadbare roles they had all seen so many times.

You won't escape me.

"Bastila?"

Please talk to me.

She would. "Will you tell me about your fleet? About the ships you discovered?"

"Tell of your parents."

In exchange? Just because? Why? Why bother? Strange, the longing for his face. Was this something else they shared? No, please, no. His taunts from before were resurfaced. 'Who could give up their child? Their little girl.' While her heart smoked and she had hated him, hated him so personally that she could forget that he as a Sith and only focus on the fact that he was simply horrid.

Her parents. What could it hurt though? Revan would never meet either of them. The only person he could hurt anymore was only her.

Her parents then. Where did one begin with that subject?

"What could you want to know? They are still on Talravin." The last she had heard. "It's a cold oceanic world in the Core Worlds. My father…" She remembered narrow blue eyes and black hair. "He used to take me to the shores. The water was green and always cold, even in summer. It used to scare me, when the tides would rise. But I always knew I wouldn't drown. We used to feed the birds that flocked alongside the shoreline, and those I should have been more afraid of _them_ ; they bit your hands if you came too close."

There was a smile in his voice. "I could take you there."

"Don't."

"I do want to—"

"Don't try that. Please."

She would never see him again, or that place.

Bastila hadn't cried yet, and wouldn't start now.

Especially with him right there.

She had shoved him into a tub and dragged his unconscious body across his ship, but so far had escaped with her own dignity relatively intact. Except for that brief, wild lapse in control where she had nearly loosened his teeth.

It had been passion and life. People died because and for what they had approached—fallen towards—and neither were in any position to deny and fight forgiveness, affection, distraction. No wonder it had been warned against. When it came down to it, how might these feelings weaken her? _Could_ she put that weapon to his head and flick it on to see him fall?

"Bastila. Oh, Bastila, even Nomi Sunrider had once been in love."

"She regretted that. It was said that she let him go because of her feelings. If she had stopped her lover there, the war might have _never_ happened. Don't you see, that's why Jedi must shun all attachments. Love can lead to such thoughtless actions. Nomi Sunrider herself later argued against Jedi having families."

"…"

Her eyes widened. "No, I didn't choose to spare you because I am in love with you!"

"…"

"We hadn't even met until I captured you. I did it out a sense of mercy and compassion. For all life. Even yours. Even though you didn't deserve it. A Jedi shows kindness and a responsibility for all life around them. If I could have, I would have spared those Sith and especially the soldiers under your command. Especially them. I only cared for you because you were still alive, and—and I thought you might be useful. Alright? We were there to capture you, not murder you. Not like the Sith.

"And don't tell me you allow Jedi to live, because after they are in your presence they no longer are Jedi anymore. They become twisted Dark Siders, fallen Jedi."

"…"

"Shut up, Revan."

She should have gone with an elaborate knock instead.

"…You know," Revan finally continued, "the Corellian Jedi are more lax about rules about certain romantic endeavors."

" _Corellians,"_ she dismissed.

"Sure. But they're still Jedi."

She stared at the door, at where his face might be. What did that mean? That _he_ was a Jedi? That he might be one after all?

Why bring up the Order at all?

It could be another trap. But for what? Revan had been given ample opportunity to murder her. Perform a slow execution, instead of just smiling when she glanced towards the lightsaber. Revan knew her every thought, all the tricks, all her talent and skills were known to him. Even her vaulted Battle Meditation he had studied. Their Bond had even a thing he was familiar with, though he called this one a sick perversion against the Force itself.

'What makes you say that?'

'It's far too powerful. Especially from one such as yourself.'

'What could you know about Bonds?'

'Are you the expert? What, aren't you the one that argues against attachments? So used to keep others far enough away so they can't hurt her? Hmm?'

'And you? _The Sith Lord?!_ '

'I make an exception.' He had replied, all pompous. 'But only because I was unconscious and forced into it.'

It was possible the Jedi Council could have done more against the Mandalorians. Sent someone to supervise the Jedi that went. Malak had destroyed Telos, after all. It wasn't all Revan's fault.

Jedi were supposed to bring justice to the galaxy. And to forgive.

"We have to be allies now."

Two Jedi could be foolish idiots and forget themselves. They might think they knew better than the Council. They might grow overly attached and lose their way in some stroke of mad passion that they should both know enough to avoid.

But they'd still be Jedi. Bad ones, less than the perfection she had strove for, but—

Still.

Neither of them were exactly Nomi Sunrider, after all. This might be the best they could hope to accomplish: two people that didn't want to murder each other and could wish they might have been companions in another life. Friends. Alright then.

At least he was less of a Sith than before. No Sith would sit there and assure her that he no longer had any reason to murder her while flicking through her datapad (she knew he was, and probably getting his fingerprint all over the screen) and waiting dutifully for her to—grow up. That was exactly what he was thinking, and Bastila could have kicked him for it.

"I know you must be aware of the concept of 'companionship.'"

If he wanted to be friends, then so be it. She would be the best friend he ever had, and stop him from slipping back into the dark side. Do a better job than Malak had, and not try to kill him (probably).

She could save him. Be that hero. Turn him back to the light. At least do that much.

She knocked twice and then three more times in rapid procession, and after a few seconds into his confused silence, Bastila opened the door.

"There you are." Revan looked up from his feet, legs crossed comfortably, eyes crinkling when he smiled. He got the joke.

…This was exactly why the Jedi were supposed to have no attachments. This emotion right here, between them and in them both. Nothing could feel this good and not be a preoccupation or outright dangerous. It was power, and could be as strong as anything else that proved treacherous such as pride or fear.

Bastila could have hidden her face behind her hands. This is what came from not being on your guard, for being weak, and not thinking and focusing solely on instinct and emotion, she was only a Padawan, and should never have been allowed on this mission after all.

He had been waiting for her.

There was a touch of red under his nostrils, and Bastila found some relief in that distraction. "Your nose is bleeding."

"Oh. Again?" He touched it, dully.

"Are you alright?"

Like a child, he wiped it away on the heavy black robe. "Does it matter?"

"Yes."

To me, it does. Yes, Revan. You are the last person I will see, and I care, I care _greatly._

"I want you to know that I do trust you. Relatively speaking."

"You say with a neural collar on."

"A collar I'm still wearing." Revan grimaced. "You can lock me up again. Will that suffice? Are you so mistrustful?"

A bluff, and one Bastila would meet.

She found the stun cuffs. "Fine. Your paranoia has spread to me, it appears."

Revan, to his credit, (or not) continued to act the wounded martyr. "You do so love chaining me up, don't you? Does your Master know of this?"

Her Master was dead. He didn't know that though, and could not be blamed. Entirely. At least, not for that comment.

"Now do I have to remain strapped to the wall? Or would you like to undress me further before doing that?"

His acting made this entire thing a sham of control.

"I like it when you're demanding. Sometimes." He offered. "Does this mean you're going to strip me? Because that is becoming less and less attractive."

She all but dragged him up.

He was slim wrists and lithe forearms. Narrow shoulders that looked much less impressive out of that absurd armor. Perhaps given more time and a better outfit, Revan might have looked like any other man. Non-descript and perhaps a little sullen. Not very tall at all.

It felt normal to have him against this wall. Natural to push him up against it and grab his wrists and fumble with the chains and cuffs and remember his collar and wonder about the setting. Have him pushed against her and willing, even passive. Too natural, really.

That face was pouting a little. A charade, no matter how his wrists were restrained. Revan knew her too well.

She couldn't—Bastila could tie up Revan the Butcher, so incapacitated and untrustworthy, but not Revan who had kissed and held her and was so pitiable and still untrustworthy. There was some figment in him that might still be a Jedi. A good man might still linger under that black robe and that scarred armor. Look at those wrists. How could someone so evil have such bony, delicate wrists of flesh and blood?

What's more, there was some part of her that wasn't the perfect accepting Jedi that held no attachments. She had been too passionate, too quick to fight and argue and present her own view on matters, that Bastila knew already. But apparently her own failings had become all the more serious. A true Jedi wouldn't have flinched from death, would not have

Had he corrupted her, or had she already wanted this? How could she not know?

Bastila looked into his awful, confusing eyes. "With you? _With you_?!"

Revan needed no further explanation. "How do you think I feel?"

"Less horrible than I do."

"No. Impossible."

"We have fought so many, many times, Revan. You should still be considered my enemy. There is not an ounce of compassion or mercy in you. I don't know if you were ever a good man." She looked at his heavy gloves, similar the ones he'd worn as a Jedi. Even then so covered.

What was the point? Of any of this? To keep fighting? Fighting what, exactly? Herself. There was no one to applaud her efforts, and it was exactly as she had been taught. Courage was fighting against evil without an audience. But this didn't seem like evil.

_Revan_ didn't seem all that outright foul. Foolish and malicious but also beaten and weak. He would never be some emperor of a Sith Empire. Not now. Both of them knew it also.

"Are you going to tie me up?" He finally asked.

"No."

"No?"

She looked at him, annoyed. "Would you like me to?"

A beat passed. He smiled, and raised an eyebrow.

A terrible man. Her friend, though. Her only friend left. Her newest, worst, only friend left.

"Bastila? You kind of look like you need a hug."

"Do I?"

If anyone looked that way, it was Revan with that smashed face with bruises and swells that still lingered.

" _Bastila_?"

They would be dead soon enough anyway. Why drag it out? If he wanted to kill her, Bastila would get a few hits in herself to satisfy her honor. At least it would be an end, either way. "Yes, I'm sure you obviously care so much about my welfare."

"I will then." He _wanted_ to. Bastila could see it in the way he was tensed. He could put his arms over and around her, settled around her waist and keeping them both trapped. "If I did, wouldn't you panic? Kick me, perhaps?"

But she beat him to it, and knew it was worth it just to see him startled. The fullness of his shoulders in her hands and the dip of his head. Hugging a Sith Lord, and still, she had _done worse_. She put her head down, nearly against his chest and nearly smiled at his sharp inhalation. Is this being humble? Like my Masters wanted. Perhaps his pulse quickened in response. Perhaps he was sincere. "Oh, this is scary. What happened in there?"

"Nothing."

"I see. You are beginning to understand. For others, this might be a moment to get their effects in order. Not that either of us own anything, anymore. Still. _Do_ you have any contact with your parents? Will you write them a note? Supposing our bodies are ever found."

She closed her eyes. Go ahead and prove how evil you are. What a monster you are, deep down.

It's wrong.

It doesn't matter. Nothing matters.

This could lead to the dark side.

No, I won't let it.

It would be stupid, idiotically dangerous to kiss her 'friend.' This is just a hug. Almost dangerously nothing. What was nothing, anywhere? A lack. If she opened her eyes, would she find him wearing that jaw-stretching slacken gaze? Or would he give her that sincere, almost _lost_ look. He would look young and beautiful, heavy eyelashes and hollow cheeks, this Knight.

Almost, almost, and she was sick of _almosts_ and _maybes._

Bastila could nearly feel and sink under the weight of longing, and felt him drowning right next to her. The anchor tying them together, the thing weighing them down. She remembered the calm, deep pool on Dantooine outside the Academy and how the young ones would always dare each other to see if they could touch the bottom.

She opened her eyes.

"Did I break you, Padawan? In an entirely new way than I usually do Jedi?

Maybe. Or maybe she just chose to do this of her own power. Which was worse?

She could just _lean in._

He was mortal now, too mortal. She wanted to just _talk_ to him. Tell me of the Mandalorians, and why you wear their mask for your own. Were you afraid, your first battle? What made you so scared you sought the dark side out to fight it? Do you fear death?

How will they find us? Cold, black, wounded. Would this ship land somewhere, or forever wander? Together.

"Feeling better then?" Revan really did need to shave again. Look at that funny shape of his nose and that knick right there. The lazy yellow of his eyes. It no longer scared her.

"Mildly." Bastila looked up and would hardly need to stretch to find his mouth. He knew it too. For an evil, uncaring monster, he could read her so easily.

"What has you scrunching your face up so?"

I'm trying to decide whether or not to decide if I should trust you.

Something warm and red ran down to his lips, and dripping down. "You're getting blood on your clothes."

"What. Oh, what's some more."

What was a little blood now, no matter how it scared her? Just a nosebleed. Bruises that still had yet to heal. The ringing in his ears he complained of, and numb spots, supposedly. Another sign of his mortality and that he was just another man and not the scary machine she had met on that flagship. Bastila pinched his nostrils shut, and not in an attempt to suffocate him, so they could continue on. The sticky redness ran down her knuckles.

"Hmm." Oh, now he was trying to act awkward and shy again. Innocent. Embarrassed. Voice ridiculous.

"I thought you were supposed to be so articulate?"

He laughed, startling, nearly _into_ her mouth, all hot breathe that had smelled of tea. "I will write you a searing treatise on your actions soon enough."

Let him write. No, let him leave no documentation of this. Check the datapad to make sure he hadn't left any notes. Oh, Force, just let him write whatever he wanted; since when could Bastila stop Revan from making a nuisance of himself? At least they might not need to speak anymore. Yes, they could pass the datapad back and forth, until inevitably one of them typed something so rude it made the other throw it across the room.

If it kept Revan quiet, then she would deal with keeping her temper under control.

"Third time," he hummed.

"Excuse me?"

"Third time, at least, that you've touched my face. Which I _do not_ recall giving you permission to do."

Damn him.

"Fine." Bastila pulled her hand away, and pretended neither of them were disappointed, Force help them both. "And you can get yourself out of those cuffs!"

"Where are the keys?" He pushed his head closer to hers, trying for affection. "Will you tell me, Shan? Will I have to bribe you? Maybe you'd prefer to play nice."

The cuffs dug into her side, fingers tugging at her belt, and he could just...She could have thrown those keys down one of the drains, Bastila realized. "Bastila? Really though. Where are the keys? Hmmm."

"Not there!"

She had seen some holos and read the novels –but they had always turned away at the last second. One embrace or kiss and then face to black. They could not prepare one for the desperation, the actual contact that could send you shivering, for the fact that you could ignore pain to the point of twisting something in your neck for the sake of spending another moment awkwardly perched at a bad angle to _look_ at him, and be happy for that fact. None had detailed properly the consuming quality that came when exploring another's relaxed and curious gaze, and imagine it being their mouths. They had neglected to mention the yelling and the embarrassment that could occur. Those stories had neglected sweat and tangled hair and sheets, and saliva and him kicking you when he rolled over. _Chafing._ They didn't talk about chapped and swollen lips from talking for _hours_ , and falling off the bed and rolling, entangled, and knocking down your fellow bedmate only to kick them in the worst, most sensitive places. None of them explained the exact details of balance and endurance and eye contact. That undressing and being dressed could be state of mind more than actual physical descriptions. That there could be islands where they didn't touch and then the islands could become the sea themselves; it all depended on your perspective.

So Revan said. He told her many things.

And she believed so much of it.

This man, in certain moments, couldn't lie. Revan, who was not new to this, was himself surprised. Especially when he clutched himself and grumbled about the size of that stupid bed.

_After_ could be a ghastly state. Even when taken into account that they were dressed and no long needy because of the pain, it could still be terrible. He nuzzled her in the mornings, and she stifled her discomfort (horror) and instead head-butted him back. Touching him was less terrible.

Revan, oh, Sith spit, _Revan_ of all people she had literally rolled around with. If not gladly, than with the knowledge it would happen again and again. And that this was just the start, the beginning, and there was so much more they could do.

He squinted at her, wincing and touching his nose.

At least neither had cried or made any proclamations of love or had a complete emotional breakdown. There were still some walls and boundaries between them. Try not to stare at one another and count the seconds. Tonight, tonight they might very well be back here. 'Where are you going?' both longed to ask. Where were their boots? He really did need to polish them.

Get up and clean something.

Walk around and pretend all you really wanted was to reach this other side of the ship. When you got there, it would be better. Except even that was not enough to distract Bastila. The way he walked, leading with his left hip, tightly wound short steps—he drove her insane, when he paced. They once walked into each other, and were comically surprised by the other being so absorbed in their thoughts. 'Watch where you're going.' 'I was—oh shut up.'

The Jedi should have left him in those cuffs, perhaps. Sat back and watched him try to get out of them using his teeth. That would have passed the time. Better than sitting at this table and feeling every second slipping past. Better than staring at each other again, knowing what the other knew and wanted. Anything to distract themselves and not seem desperate, needy, depraved.

Wash the blood off your hand.

Revan tapped his fingers against the table. They were covered again, and that was a shame. "Can I…"

"What?"

She flinched when he touched her, even when he went to fix her hair. "Do you have a brush?"

"No. What are you doing?"

Those hands were strong, and there was a perilous moment when he tug her head back. "Stop fighting." He fussed over her braids. Tangles. Some Sith Lord he was. Did Malak know about his affection? Had he seen it, been bestowed some of it? Or was Bastila special enough to receive this attention? Was that a good thing?

"Did I ever tell you about what happened at Serroco?"

"Some."

Confusion creased his face. "When?"

She looked up. "When you were feverish."

"All part of your master plan. Catch me weak and get me to reveal all my secrets."

"Not all," she reassured him. "Not all of them."

"Which ones?"

"Let's just say it was very enlightening."

"Hm. You're cute when you're trying to be coy." He focused on tugging her loose hair, brushing her scalp, and Bastila didn't even care if he stabbed her right then. "Maybe I'll tell you the full story. Why not…"

Darth Revan telling her a story and combing her hair and it was too awful, insane to be true.

Still, planets kept spinning on their axis, their ship continue drifting along, and her heartbeat continued. The universe had stood for billions of years, and would continue long after they perished. Their 'teams' would even continue to battle and fight without Bastila Shan and Revan to guide them. They amounted to so little. What did this matter, in the face of things?

"Stop—"

(Stop being you, and this time, she could so easily imagine, his smugness and hands on her hips and she could practically sat in his lap and demand all sorts of things. That is what he wanted, and that was something that 'couples' did, and they might as well get it over with. Bastila could nearly hear his voice sinking. "Voracious, are you, little Jedi?")

He would never get such a verbal confirmation from her. Even when the Dark Jedi continued to tease her.

"—just please keep your mouth shut."

"Yes, my Empress."

Though that only proved frustrating, in the end. I'll tell you nothing you want, but all you could never stand to hear.

Missions and the war fought across lines were remembered in this dizzy heat, discussed again in passing, but no battle plans, never quite that betrayal occurred. Revan instead wanted to know about individual soldiers. So many of them must have wanted her, but she had never given in, never? Of course. Revan _would_ find a way to pervert her fondness for the Republic military and the crews she had served with. Taint everything in his own despicable way. Lean across the table to cup her hand and hold it there, trapped.

"You know what they all wanted to do to you?" Touch her face. "Exactly what _I'm_ going to do to you."

Not at all the sort of thing friends did.

There was supposed to be some order when it came to romantic arrangements. Sweetness, Bastila would have thought. This was the person you chose to expose yourself to and cared for in such an intimate way. Not just _depravity,_ even if it was Revan _._ If he so desired a relationship, then shouldn't he be kinder? Not say horrid things and expect her to agree than threaten to slap him and finish what Malak had started.

But shouldn't you be glad there was a lack of proper affection? You should be nicer, she wanted to scold, right before she scolded herself. What is he? What is he to you? He really was her boytoy and that was so much more awful than even her own imagination could have crafted—and then he would shift, grab her, and that was the end of all thinking for the Jedi. "Oh, Shan, whatever are you thinking about?"

Only this heat and warm knot in her stomach mattered. His mouth. Vague attempts to stay standing. Bastila could not breathe, this time. The closeness provided an inability to escape his gaze. Face to face. The way he slithered closer. What I'm doing to you.

What are you doing?

This terrible back-and-forth. His hands, dropping to her shoulders, and moving upward again. His words and how they left her. This _tension_. His thumb running across her chin and her not minding it so much.

(How many times had she been surprised by him? Fourth time then, and what was the point of keeping track after that? See if the number could be kept under a six before they died? It wouldn't. Perhaps the goal might become to see how many times they could keep that number above six until they died?)

I could kiss him. I could just keep kissing him until I died.

Until they reached some dangerous point. "Stop."

He made a choked noise, of disbelieve and confusion, before she did. Then they stared at each other for a long moment. She shoved him and watched him fall sideways.

Her captive. Her abused captive. But what was a little pain, when after it came his surprised laughter or his face when she crouched down to check on him? Their entire bodies became comical, as had his apology, and the reason for it. Here she was, breathing and existing, and Revan was the same. Krif, but it was cold, and her hair felt a mess.

"Sorry? Bastila, are you okay?"

No. "Yes, I am quite alright."

And she was, and would continue to be.

Albeit somewhat confused.

He sighed. "Well, you can be. If you'd allow it."

Bastila had never felt so aware of her body and been this close to death. This was living on the edge, and she was freed of all safety. There was no fellow Jedi there, no Masters to protect her, and no soldiers to pull her back. She was _freed_. And aware of her every long year she had, and young again. Away from everyone and never as close to another as this.

His hands were less calloused than her own, pretty even, and Bastila took an odd enjoyment in that. That he spoke so many languages and been to so many worlds and knew so much. All those in his life, his past flings and begging flatterers. That he could have gone to a fine restaurant and known what to order and had been a successful diplomat for so long. A gifted tactician. Worlds had followed him, not the faceless Sith. They had been wrong to turned traitor on the Republic, especially for one man, but that made it all the more remarkable.

This man that dreamed next to her with his face smoothed in sleep, he had changed the entire landscape of the galaxy. His will and drive and conviction had done that. He had even convinced her to forget her sanity in this haze of dumb diversions.

Revan would have been a Master by now, if things had gone differently.

Bastila could, when he slept, run fingers through his hair, lightly at first, then tugged at a handful of it to turn his face at different angles.

I don't know if I even want this. Him…I definitely don't want him, this mass murderer, as a friend. He repents and regrets nothing still. There is no room for him to change and grow. I want him to be a good man, a Jedi.

It doesn't matter what either of us want, however.

Revan will be the last person I see.

'What should I do, Master?'

'Stop being a mindless idiot and ignore your hormones. This Bond is something to overcome and ignore. _You know what he is._ '

Yes, that was good advice. Only—but I don't want to.

Was it too much to ask for something aside from Jedi and Sith? That she might just be a person before she died—why did she always have to be perfect all the time at controlling herself?

You are too impassioned.

Stoic resolve was impossible with him. Perhaps due to the Bond or his own time as an interrogator or just the circumstances themselves allowed Revan to dig into her skin and draw out responses. In exchange for tolerant silence, Bastila had hated and distrusted him for days and days.

Only to try and learn otherwise.

And it didn't seem like the dark side.

Was it? Could it not be? No cackling and lightning. Sometimes there were stars in her vision, but that didn't seem to be enough…neither of them was chained up, and they fought and threatened each other less.

Well, physically, they would fight when words proved too little. But even that had a sense of camaraderie. The absurdity of wrestling her 'partner' and putting him in a headlock was embraced even. "I wonder whose enjoying this more?" He'd been only clad in trousers, all but turning blue and losing the ability to speak, so Bastila knew but she allowed him the possibility otherwise. She had clutched him, and enjoyed the smoothness of his neck against her mouth. Until he collapsed.

And when he regained consciousness, the first thing he said was, "You could have done that better if you'd applied more pressure to this point here."

"Where?"

"Am I not pointing to it?"

"No. Revan? _Revan_?"

"I just need a minute to regain feeling in my limbs…and no, that doesn't mean you won."

She still had no idea what exactly they were. He was less and less a Sith, and they might be friends at this point, more than that even.

They were not like the other couples she had seen, imagined, learned from the Holonet. There was no completion so utter, or finishing each other's sentences correctly rather than cutting them off, or losing herself in his eyes.

No, rather, they were like a couple she had seen, on Coruscant, a pair that had squabbled outside stores because of choosing the right end table. Seemingly locked together not smoothly, but jammed, friction sparking. You could pull them apart, but not without damaging what you were trying to rescue. Bastila had been careful about going around that squabbling pair.

Revan though, he did gaze at her for too long. Cup her cheek and look into her eyes and not make any jokes or negative comments. Propping up his head and watching her. He wanted to see her laugh and twitch and burrow under her skin. Talk of the pleasure they might share as her eyes widened and looked blindly into the ceiling, and then shove her away after her mind had fallen apart and her body could hardly remember how to walk. Fall again from that small bed to the ground with her and even that proving to be a minor distraction—where are you going, let go, Revan, krif, _my elbow ow._ The things that could be written about in datapads for people to read, with discreet warnings as to the material within. For the Archives and curious Padawans and horrified Masters.

Playing with fire. Twirling a loaded blaster, flicking on a lightsaber in the dark, making a deal with the Dark Side, meeting a Sith Lord in an alleyway...

We shared a bed, and rolled in it, but in an Echani fashion—but fully clothed. It would have been worse somehow to sleep on the ground. In the bed, shared and grunting animals, all hedonism, it had been very different from all other times just like the other times had been different from the ones before. I could break you, and then she would gain the upper hand and listen to him whine of dislocated fingers. If they were found, how to explain these new marks? Still, like this, it was safer, less likely to fall, desperate and less and less afraid. Shove and push, shove and push back. Until they fell.

That was what she feared, even as she wanted nothing more than the physical confrontations. His wet mouth and heavy breathing, and her under him, suddenly aware. That face, devoid of a smirk.

She pushed wild hair out of her eyes. "What do we do now?"

He slid his knee between her thighs. "Whatever we can think of."

Which, apparently, did not mean kneeing him right back, but much more forcibly.

Yet—Bastila liked the way he _sunk_ against her, in pain or affection or surprise, his face always dimly surprised as though asking _you, you did this to me_? Why yes I did. She could take him in a fight, she believed, knew, now.

Every day, monotonous, managed to be different with him, Bastila learned.

He did prove to be adept at rubbing her back, it turned out. Too good. She would fall asleep, and he would pout over her taking up all the space on the bed.

What could be less obvious intimacy. Tracing around her eyelashes would make her tense for so many reasons. Especially when he went on about the exact shade of her eyes and made comparisons to foolish things. Revan wanted to explore her, see her exposed in all ways, and would hiss of how perfect she was. At this moment. Briefly. _Gone_. Her light, open slap to his face oddly cheered him up and Bastila would rather not know why.

So many things she knew and would rather not further discover.

Such as the discovery that there were even worse things than what they had already done. There were new things. Areas they hadn't fully explored and how Revan would grin about that. There were other things that she would only literally dream about. Such as certain positions and movement and your form hunched and vulnerable and _waiting._

On the table, her back resting on it, stomach facing him, exposed and vulnerable. Waiting for him to presumably not stab her with a sharpened spoon. Waiting for his comments to follow his flickering gazes up at her while he sat there. Trust and want, it was hard to have one without the other Bastila was discovering. Especially since neither wanted to try to use the stun cuffs.

In a second, Revan could be _right there_. "Comfortable? Hm. You do like showing off. If we were in a more civilized place, there are certain outfits you could wear—"

"Stop."

Force, but she didn't need reminders of his previous experiences and…general weirdness. Wondering what he might like, _prefer_ , would only irk her. Revan could never know that, or he'd forever use it as a weapon. Did he notice her unease? Had he seduced others like this, find themselves with a hand on the small of their back as she kicked at him? The Sith Lord claimed that this was all so new to him, these emotions that made his fingers wander.

She looked over her shoulder, away, feeling hair fallen out of her bun against her cheeks. Remember his previous comments made just days (days?) before. If he wanted to discuss the past and their time spent with soldiers, then they would. "At the Enclave, we used to wonder who was better looking, you or Malak."

"And?"

"No contest."

They paused for a beat.

"Malak?"

"Obviously."

"That's fair. The Exile was prettier than you."

Oh he better never mention such a thing to her again because—then, he was descending, cheerful, aiming for her cheek, and Bastila really did discard attempting to be furious at Revan or count how many times they had been like this now. "But I do like you more."

His stupid mouth.

No wonder Malak had forgot his own vows around Revan. There was a charisma to him. It couldn't be denied. You did want his respect.

He would twist and force her into seeking for some sanity, trying to recall domestic moments she had seen from others. Normal people. Touching him and wishing for better. But both refused to admit too much, and wordlessly, vowed to never hug unnecessarily. Spoon awkwardly on the bed, but out of _necessity._

Even on the ground here, they were separated briefly. Trying to refind themselves and remember what it was like to not be locked with another. Quiet and nearly peaceful.

She tried a stab, though, when she watched him inspecting his wounds and trying to comb out his wild hair. "Things might have been better if we had met years ago. I wish I had met you then."

"You don't. You'd have gone to Malachor. I would have sent you there, believe me."

To _die_. "What an awful creature you are. How could you say that?"

"I was a less patient man then. It was better this way, in terms of us getting along if nothing else. Besides, my Master would have made sure we had no dalliances. Sorry to ruin that fantasy for you." He chuckled, and not at her expression. "If Kae had met you…"

His laugh was so hideous and throaty, deep in his chest, that she had to hide her own smile. "I wouldn't impress her?"

"You would have driven each other crazy."

"She kept a close watch on you? Then how do you explain this?" Bastila motioned to his face.

"Kae was protective, that was all. Ironically, I don't think she was so crazy about people having personal relationships. Totally disapprove of what we'd done. She'd keep us apart. Make us stand in separate corners. You'd have the worst Mother-in-Law in the galaxy. So many lectures. Worse than you. Almost."

"Revan?"

"Yes, dear?" All chipper.

"Get away from me."

"Fair enough."

Then he did crunches on the cold ground while she watched and said he shouldn't waste his energy. "Then what should I—Oh. No wonder they kept you locked up."

Bastila would not blush and act embarrassed. Instead, she would deflect. Just as she'd been taught to do with her blade. The Masters truly would be so disappointed with her. "No one kept me 'locked up.' I was not cloistered away."

"Pity for them. Those poor soldiers. I can imagine their pain of serving alongside you. Forget what _I_ did to them. They won't burn effigies of me. Nope, I'll get parades. The Man that Silenced Shan. Whom was the trap for, Bastila? _Whom_?"

Should that have been who? He must know how that bothered her. But it was still Darth Revan, and Revan the Butcher fed off innocent's pain. Exactly as the stories told to scare younger apprentices had gone. And she was the disobedient Jedi that was being stalked by the creature so ruined by ego and bloodlust. Bastila had been warned by hearing such mean fables, and yet here she was. Admiring his elbows and how his muscles flexed, like some foolish teenager, and also doubting his grammar. "If you're done."

"Then what? Hang on." The man sat a little straighter. "I have a pertinent question."

"What is it?" Bastila would regret this.

"Why in the Seven Hells were you even _there_?"

"Excuse me?"

"On my ship. _Facing_ me? Were _you_ the trap? The lure?" Revan thought on that. "But why were you there, right there, to fight me? I remember you preparing to rush me or something equally insane… Shouldn't you have been defended by Jedi that actually _knew_ what they were doing?"

"…"

" _Bastila."_

She sighed. "I went ahead. To stay back would have led to our defeat considering your little droids had no more compassion than you did. What were those, anyway?"

"You were that eager to meet me, huh. Trying to be a hero? So eager you rushed to my side the first chance you got, just caught up in that moment, happy to finally meet the man you so admired and loved from afar." He all but fluttered his eyelashes at her. "So flattering."

She needed that laugh.

"And incompetent. But I guess it worked out, huh?"

"I have mixed feelings."

She helped him up and was rather a good sport by playing along when Revan practically fell into her –only given how he slumped into her shoulder perhaps it hadn't been entirely feigned. There was a jumble of fear (are you still sick, why are your eyes so bloodshot and you so dizzy) that rose up and had to be fought down.

"Just give me a second."

That, Bastila could give. If only so many. Might even allow herself the possibility of kissing his forehead and just enjoyed the peace of his inhaling and exhaling that matched hers, the smell and feeling of rough hair.

Then both pulled away and tugged at their clothes. Act civilized.

Until later.

There was always a later.

It was the strange, worst purgatory she could have imagined. Torture might have been preferable. At least then she would know who and what she was. Then she could still be a Jedi, whole and steady. Even admirable.

This was the most pathetic of all failings. For hormones and cowardly affection, for baser animal instinct. He's _warm_. There was no sanity to this. Instinct. For the man she had been sent to capture, and if that was not possible, than to kill.

Now she knocked him over and railed against his every single remark until he grimaced and gave up. She would all but sit on him and demand answers. She pushed him off the bed. She rubbed his back until he was relaxed and then demanded to know of his ships and generals and all the location of his Sith gold. She got him in an excellent headlock and when he regained consciousness, he all but beamed.

Together, they cleaned and paced. "Look at that, both of us, manic together."

"Whose ship was this, anyway?"

"I'm not entirely sure."

"How do you not know?"

"I let some of the small things slide, apparently. Like expecting my apprentice to not murder me."

"Foolish."

"Yes. I am aware. Still, this is what I wanted." He looked deep into the bucket of dampened rags. "My apprentice to surpass me. That's the entire point."

"Brilliant work, Revan. You did plan this out well, didn't you. Slow starvation while the galaxy burns down us."

"It's not exactly what I wanted." Revan nearly _blustered_. "But even I can't control everything."

"The Force did stop you."

"And you." Now he was being peevish. "I can die relatively satisfied, with my legacy continuing on, if Malak can prove—oh shut up. You won't even have that much. You were too young and untrained. What do you pass on, Bastila, but another lesson on being a martyr for the Jedi. Mm. Were you ever happy? The dutiful Padawan."

Is he happy?

Is this happiness by any account?

She remembered, vividly, after having holding him in place and then purposely moving aside and off him, and him rolling around clawing at his eyes. 'Why not? Why? No, shut up, I know why.' Jokes and the taunts, the threats and talks of what could be decent, innocent that veered and left them stumbling around. 'Why not?' 'Guess.' ' _Bastard._ ' And herself shoving him away in something very close to rage.

A kiss, is that what you want? Close his eyes and lean in, and expect, expect…

Even putting that aside, wanting to claw the metal from the walls and shriek, as he went on about his heroics and how lucky she was to have met him. His preening. "You know how few people have seen me without my armor? How many have seen me without my mask?"

"What a gift."

"You're welcome."

"I don't suppose it's too late to take it back?"

Revan did that idiot grin, and she remembered his mask and what it had hid.

Not so bad, not really. Bruised and battered, but not as monstrous as the other Padawans had whispered about. He could be worse. In that regard. If only she could go back then, and tell those gossiping students about his snoring and his complaining and to inform them that Alak had definitely been the taller one. But of course one would have believed her, and taken that information with that side-ways stare of those in on the joke. Those groups of Padawans that had been older, and then suddenly younger than her, and she had always been outside of them. But still, Bastila missed them and all that pettiness and minor arguments and the jockeying for attention from the few Masters left.

Now she was with a Sith Lord that taunted her in-between the random bouts of arguments and affection. He kissed between her shoulder blades and on her fingertips while she twisted around and away. He would let half of a bar hang from his mouth and encourage her to take a bite.

None of those other Padawans would ever believe this. You? Even Revan didn't believe it. No one would ever believe her. Not even if she typed out all the details. Madness, it would be declared. His fury and narrow eyes and ridiculous habit of raising his eyebrows for emphasis too often. On his knees, laughing, and then _not_ , as he made his declarations. "I do. With the heat of a thousand suns."

She rolled her eyes. "That may very well be the worst attempt at flattery you've ever made."

Then he did move too close, let everything grow too unbearable, and so carefully cupped her face. Do you doubt me? Do you know what I did to the doubters?

Still, he had been hyperbolic—five hundred suns, perhaps.

An unforeseen disaster. Were they not stuck together, trapped, it never would have happened. She would have kept his distance with another around to absorb his personality and appease his taste for fights and squabbles; Bastila still did not dare play cards with him.

There was _too much_ of him.

He crept into her brain and thoughts and through the Force Bastila could feel him, and now he was in her bed. All elbows and that nose and bony knees. They would just sleep, but his arm would be thrown over her hip, and that was simply too much to just deal with. She would have to shove him over and bicker with him over that blanket and end up sleeping with her head pressed into his back or chest.

To say nothing of what happened during sleep, when her consciousness and imagination were untethered and even Revan would not always speak of that. Perhaps he preferred or genuinely did think they didn't share all their dreams.

But being awake was worse. What was her excuse then?

Everyone would be so appalled. They would never know, Bastila reminded herself. But that too didn't prove as calming as she would have hoped. She would never be able to tell them about her failure or her victory.

Never a Padawan of her own and reach Masterhood. No trips to the capital. To the Temple. There would be no meditation before the fountains and in the garden. She would never see her Master's jaw relax in surprise. Never see her old companions. She would never tell her father of what she'd done and seen. No adventures with him into an ancient civilization with untold discoveries just for the two of them to share with the galaxy. No seeing Master Vander again, and his large yellow eyes, or Master Zhar instructions or the Masters in the Archives or any of the young children or any of the Republic soldiers she was sworn to protect.

There was only the dull humming from the ship, and Revan's grumbling and her own voice, nagging or too soft. This bed and that refresher and that weapon hidden over there, tucked away.

She missed her small room, with the simple woven grass mats and bare walls and the _silence_ of the Academy's walls and Dantooine's low hum of insects and grass rustling. The warmth of the dirt and how often the sun shone. And she missed before then, her home before Dantooine, where she was always _waiting_ for someone to come back or for something to happen. Her stack of books that had overflowed and then looked so small when she discovered the Archive on Coruscant. The mess halls and desks and chairs and training chamber.

Revan had been through the same halls and buildings and rooms. She couldn't stop imagining him, a little younger, eyes darker, in those places. Lurking around, touching the books she'd read and sitting in the corner of her lectures. He was that annoying snippet of a song that snuck into your head and wouldn't leave until you were humming it.

Did I meet you before? Did we meet someplace earlier? I think I did meet Malak, yes. Perhaps. I was too young to join you. I'm sure if we did see each other before, you hardly even noticed me. Superior and usually on Coruscant, lording his intelligence over other Jedi even then, Bastila was sure.

Still, she wished she had met him. If only for the sake of comparison.

He pushed his mug around the table. "I miss caffe."

"Yes." Bastila sipped the weak tea.

"Were you allowed to drink it? I would have thought you were a stickler for avoiding all stimulants."

She let that one go, for her own sake. "With sugar and cream?"

"You must have played at being such a good little Padawan. Did you like fetching your Masters drinks?"

It would be a waste to pour this into his lap or splash it into his face. "Is that a no?"

"I do prefer my women like my caffe," he purred.

Bastila nearly bared teeth. "Neither, then?"

"Maybe not entirely like caffe. You're neither sweet nor creamy."

"Disgusting," she declared.

"Hm." He made a show of putting his chin in those large hands and gazing at her. "Bold, not as strong as it should be, certainly not smooth, rough all the way down."

…it would be a waste to pour this into his lap or splash it into his face. It would.

"See what I rescued you from, Padawan."

"This again? Oh, yes, Revan you rescued me from the perils of the Council. I suppose you feel you deserve some sort of _prize_ for that. Too bad I have nothing to give you."

"Jedi do give up all possessions," he admitted. "That leaves you will little to offer. Besides your body and dignity and all that pride. "

Bastila sneered, even as he stared at her with that certain flicker.

"What do you have, Revan?"

Your pride. Your body. Your dignity. You don't even have your mask anymore.

"Sith do tend to hoard. I could give you a thousand planets. Everything worthwhile would be yours. Untold tributes and everything you could ever ask for."

She peeled the weight of his gaze off and left it behind. "Poisoned gifts."

"They would have weighed you down, kept you chained, but happy. Can you imagine that, Shan, being happy?

Revan looked at his mug. "I had so much to offer you."

"And imagine if there were device hidden onboard, recording all of this. Transmitting it somewhere else. Perhaps to the Empire. Or to the Republic. Just for the sake of entertainment."

"…"

"I was kidding."

She could be on her back, belt undone and thrown aside and him clad only in pants and an undershirt, nothing in the universe but each other, and he would do his best to loom over her, tense (you are nothing, mine, _Bastila_ ) and pupils eating up his eyes until there was nothing left but a small ring, and then he would snap and descend and bite into the air above her cheek ( _bastila_ please) and collapse besides her.

They could twist, and shake and bring down the other with a resounded clap and a quiet swallow.

Revan would crawl away from her, after her vengeance at being awakened by his hands in her hair, in retribution for the dreams that left her restless, in exchange for taking so long to find the keys, for taking the last of the grained crackers, because she wouldn't shut up, because he wouldn't shut up.

Who is he? Is he Revanchist, the brash Jedi Knight that wanted to stop a war, or was he Revan, terrifying, monstrous Sith she had faced with every intention of cutting down? He wore so many masks.

He was the fighter that nearly wretched her shoulder out of the socket only to stumble when she dug an elbow into his side and planted her foot into his knee, and he marveled at her fury. The fearless terror that had brought down the Mandalorians, scattered the Echani, broke the finest Jedi Masters. But he marveled at her lack of bruises as they rose from their corner, especially compared to his battered, piecework of a body. "You are a _Basilisk_ , Shan."

He was her friend. He was no one's friend. He was no one.

But he did not strangle her. He did not leap for his lightsaber. He did not choke her while they sparred as best they could in cramped quarters.

Their truest, most violent fights were done in piecemeal across a table with nothing shared but words: "Stubborn."

"Stuck up." From a man that never stopped bragging.

She huffed politely, quietly. "Condescending."

"Reckless."

"Murderer."

"Brash."

Bastila glanced at her nails, bitten to the quick. "Overcompensating."

Revan had one he'd been dying to try out. "Vain."

She fired back. "Psychotic."

"Rude."

"Masochistic."

"Sadistic."

They both need a moment of reflection. No…? Well. Perhaps. Alright then.

"Spiteful."

"Insensitive."

He thought on that one. Well. Alright. He was that, but compared to his other crimes, being tactless seemed a minor crime. Should I be more sensitive, Shan? "Fickle," he decided.

"Cad."

"Tease."

"Imp."

" _Adorable_."

"Jedi."

" _How dare you."_

His hands though. His fingers. The veins on the back. The places they had been. Where they might go next.

Then she would bury her head in the pillow and he would poke her in the back and ask what had gotten her so embarrassed. "Apprentice, there's so much more for me to show you."

You can show me whatever you want. Why ask permission? Why pretend?

But still he asked for her attention. He did cartwheels and demanded she watch. He recited things in languages she didn't know and wasn't entirely sure were real. Look at me, pay attention to me like everyone else! Cards, three-quarters of a deck, were toyed with, and Bastila looked at them with a certain dread. "What could we even play for?"

"Sexual favors," he said with a straight face.

She had just rolled her eyes. Why bother? "Don't you already ask me for such things?" What shame is there to be had for you? "Would you prefer to be coy, Revan?"

"Really? Just… _ask_? For whatever we want?" Then Revan requested, with the softest hesitation, for something that was, in this life and all others, _appalling_.

Bastila didn't bother pausing before her reply. "I would never do that."

"I see. What if I had you pick a card…"

She really had unleashed a monster.

Making Revan happy (momentarily appeased) was usually either an act of desperation or of evil. But this was just an executioner having pity. No, perhaps it was just two prisoners passing the time until death.

Some of it was feigned too, on his part. He only acted the sex-crazed pervert for amusement (his own, of course). And to make his fall from power less painful. If he was the foolish clown and not Revan the Butcher, there was less to be missed.

Or he was doing it to make her laugh.

Or to frighten her.

Remember that figure draped in shadows raising his blade while she warned him of what was to come. To forgive, to forget those that had died, because now she knew their slayer?

Still, she took a card and had to laugh when he went through the whole pack trying to find a matching one. Still she was secretly delighted when later when Revan pulled the matching one from behind her ear so cleanly she almost could forget he had been hiding it in his sleeve. And still, they played pazaak, and later built a wobbly tower of them that fell over because of the other's fault. The stack of cards that would soon become further reduced.

Revan craved that attention and her laughter, even as he told her of their shared loss. "It will be romantic. We'll make love one, slowly, get to intimately know these mortal vessels one last time. Every inch re-explored. Then you'll get to live out another fantasy by putting that lightsaber through my head."

They _hadn't_ —ugh, but she hated his smirk and her reluctant sigh. "Then I have to kill myself? Why must I do all the work?"

"Do you trust me enough to kill you? And then continue with my own suicide?"

If not, that would certainly be one desperate con act, wouldn't it? "Don't you want to join the Force with me?" That was a dangerous weapon to wield, Bastila knew. It was one that could backfire so easily.

"Or we could both stay in Chaos. Apart from it. Then you could forever bother me."

"How would one even do such a thing?"

"There are techniques one learns." His voice arched and became all the more annoying. He scratched at his stubble and acted superior. "We talked of such in the war. Malak and I even made a pact later, that we would not join the Force but remain outside. Why not? Haunt some tombs and make fun of the pathetic would-be Sith that come sniffing around for advice."

"Even in _death_ you would be awful."

"But we can be awful together. Soon enough we'll have to decide to no longer continue."

"A lover's suicide," Bastila mused.

They paused and mourned their reputations and healthy sense of selves.

"It will be."

"Damnit."

The worst part might be when they laughed. Together, they could laugh. After a delirious, confusing romp in that uncomfortable bed, mussed and damp, and covered with a blanket, and he was telling her of a childhood mistake, of a mishap with Alak, and both of them were downright delighted with their amusement. _How_ long had he needed Alak to reach the books on the high shelf, anyway? Her head resting on her arms and looking at his animated face. Him under the blanket pulled up high. They were children again and some a Master would come by and separate the giggling younglings.

They were both such idiots.

"Did you ever have a Bond like this?"

"No."

"Neither have I."

"Don't leave."

"There's nowhere to go."

"I meant the bed."

"I won't."

They would finally pop the champagne, with no little irony. It was dry, delicious after the flat water, and the first alcohol she'd ever consumed in hopes of intoxication. This was nothing like the red wine served at diplomatic functions and dinners. Even she, after never before drained her glass, could drink and then look for a refill. He would have made a good waiter, Bastila decided as Revan kept pouring.

He even sniffed the glass and looked deep into the mug before serving it. As though it made any difference. "A fine vintage," Revan declared. "We deserve it."

"Why was there alcohol here? Who was this ship _for_?" She snorted laughter.

"I don't know. There were a lot of ships in there."

"How do you now know? What type of emperor are you?"

"The kind you dream about."

Bastila had to laugh again. The champagne had gone straight to her head. "What are we celebrating again?"

He refilled his glass. "Our love."

"No, truly." Her hair was falling down and she shook it out. She wished she didn't notice how he looked at her when she did that. She wished he didn't do it.

"Surviving this long without killing each other?"

"That's it, yes."

It was a miracle. The Force was with them still, giving her patience and him those dimples.

I shouldn't look. I shouldn't notice.

But she did, and was now forever damned because of that fact, or had been damned enough to notice it in the first place. And how well Revan knew that.

The armor added gravitas, and height he needed. It hid the thinness and the delicate bones, the slightness to his frame. Misleading lies. She glowered at him when he gave his most smarmy smile that cocked his head to the side and let you appreciate those dimples. "Here. Kill this."

She swilled straight from the bottle, throat working. Animals then.

"I am curious. You never came into contact with Alak."

"Not truly."

I was innocent then. So young. Too young.

"You just heard about him. Were you curious? Did you want to join us?"

Now I am so much older. More mature. Wiser even. Yes, I can be.

"No, I knew enough to avoid going against the Council."

"Liar."

"I am not."

"You were told to not be captured by me, I'm sure."

Yes, with many warnings. If it comes to that, Padawan, you are to do whatever is in your powers to not be taken. Bastila had nodded firmly at the time, quite certain it wouldn't come to that. But when the other Jedi had begun to be struck down, including her own master, she had continued moving forward. Kill myself, with my own blade? Impossible, she knew now, she didn't have that self-preservation and martyrdom.

I went on, to face you, and if you had defeated the others and hesitated and I been given the opening to turn my lightsaber on myself, I still don't know if I could have done it.

"I captured you." And then let you go. Because I am compassionate. You would have kept me tied up to torture and ruin as you had the others. But now. Now you are free and so _different._ Kinder, more understanding and you would not admit that, would you.

Revan inspected the bottle, smoothing the label down. "Is this even close to how you and the Council wanted the mission to go?"

She looked at his bare wrists. "No."

"If it is any reassurance, this is nothing how I expected to die. I thought I would capture you. Or simply strike you down if you proved too unwieldy to with strain. Or too loyal. Or talkative."

"You could not have turned me." Bastila came close, too close, to stare him down. "You would never have been able to do that."

His sideways smile told her otherwise. "I guess we'll never know."

"If anything, I have improved _you_."

"Have you now."

"You are much more pleasant to be around, now, than that horrible man you were before. In that costume. With that _mask."_

"The mere threat of me arriving with my armada could force entire systems—"

"Like who?"

"The Mandalorians are broken at my feet—"

"With the Republic's help."

"With my help. And the Echani-"

"Are hardly broken. Or does lacking clear leadership mean a group is destined to fail?" She didn't wait for his pouting reply. "In fact, I'm pretty sure you haven't won any meaningful victory. If you had, the Republic still wouldn't be fighting you so much."

It was lovely to watch him grimace. "We both know the Republic has months, perhaps a year, before it is swept away."

"Am I misremembering, or did I not fight you on a ship, rather than in a temple raised to your ego on Coruscant?"

Coruscant. No he hadn't captured that, and how that stuck in his craw just a bit. "We will beat you," Revan vowed, and tried not to look bitter.

"We? Hm. So _Malak_ won, then."

"…you're a rude drunk. Now, get over here so I can chastise you, Padawan."

She nearly squealed, and had to hide her face as she cringed from his hands. Her forearm felt a comfortable place to rest her forehead. "Stop. Stop. I don't know what I'm even doing. This goes against the Code."

"Forget the Code. This is just between us. The Force and the Jedi and the Sith have nothing to do with it." Revan looked so sure, so handsome and confident and certain, that Bastila could nearly believe him. Revan the Butcher. But before then he'd been a strong admirable Knight. Everyone had been so curious, so eager to talk of his boldness and bravery. He had fought and beat the Mandalore in single combat.

Then, after the war, he had decided to take over the known galaxy.

Now he kissed her neck while she demanded he cease, and fawned over her nose and voice. He stated filthy things in that low deep voice, just horrid facts that she was in no shape to disagree with. Now she drank with him and later they would sleep in the same room with him at his feet as he made long, tenuous arguments about why she should let him into her bed. Him alight with the glow of conversation and schemes, even for miserable nothings like biscuits and pillows.

Bastila drank a little more and listened to him telling her of something nicer, of a ball he'd attended when first being given command of Republic forces, and she could even follow some of it. Him in a suit, being expected to act 'normal' but not too humble since he was the Revanchist. "I had never been in such a setting before. I was expected to make jokes and give toasts and tell all those politicians how I was going to save their arses and flirt with their wives."

"I'm sure you were very good at that."

You were so good.

"I wasn't even allowed to wear my mask, and it was awful having to appease those awful, cowardly excuses for leaders. The same beings who had argued against intervention now wanted to shake my hand. And I was expected to take it with a smile. Those people who will never suffer for their inactions."

"You still resent them."

"The Senate should be cleansed of corruption. Even the Jedi know this."

He was still terrible though. Still rough and angry. Revan hadn't changed that much. If only he was a little less...himself. Able to let go of all that anger and channel his energy towards something besides more war and death, and flirting with her for that matter. Get rid of that mask too. Maybe put on that black suit though, that did sound pleasant. Revan, free of the gage of his emotions, with his hideous, gorgeous stupid face. He would take off that mask, and return to the Jedi, and she would be there, to present him. Look at what I did, and everyone would be so amazed, she wasn't just Bastila Shan, the girl with the Battle Meditation, but a true proper Jedi who had learned to be patient and wise, she had managed to change Revan and bring him back to the Republic, _her_.

Still, her smile shrunk. It had been the Force that had brought them together, to fight across the galaxy and then to finally meet face-to-face and her to capture him. But, still, why did they have to be stuck here, trapped, and so...drawn to one another in this hideous confusing way of sexual tension and fascination, all mixed, jumbled and twisted. It was all ruined, everything, and Bastila needed another drink.

Why are you this way?

"Why are you?"

She stared at him. "Why did you become a Sith?"

"So many people have asked me that. I needed the knowledge of their teachings. That's what it started off as. In the war, we needed all the help we could get. " He hesitated, fingers still on the empty bottle. "I had too many questions that the Jedi could not answer. Before I even fell, I was curious. What it felt like to be everything I should not be. And after what I found, in those gaps, in those answers...It was inevitable."

"But the war is over."

"The battles are never over. Every day there is another fight in all Force-users. Another possibility, and more questions."

Her face was flushed, hot, and she wanted to press her cheek against his cold armor and listen to him speak. "I have questions."

"I will try to answer them to the best of my ability?"

"Why are you being sincere now?"

"Why not. When I die, it will be with you by my side. I know that, and you know it to. Why lie to you, Padawan? We have been doomed and destined to meet and perish with one another. Isn't that romantic?"

Yes, in some way, it might be. The Jedi and the Sith. Awful, and yet so appealing and foolish, and was this really happening to her, or would she make a scene by waking up to someone dropping a book loud enough to echo throughout the Enclave. And if anyone knew she'd had such a dream, she'd be the laughing stock of the entire Jedi history, shunned by her peers and scorned by the Masters, sent to some backwater planet to hoe the fields and never be mentioned again.

Revan put his arm around her shoulder, and Bastila still did not come to consciousness. He wore his most smarmy, charming expression—at _her,_ and she fumbled with her mug and wished there was more alcohol in that bottle. He had walked amongst the most powerful beings in the Republic, with every eye on him, in a fine dark suit that had been tailored perfect, and she was the Padawan mentioned as the Republic's Last Hope, the stop-gap before a hero stepped up or the Sith demolished each other. She felt every many of her years and tried to count them up as she sipped and he stayed close and watched her.

"All this because of my gift."

"The very reason for your popularity will be your downfall. It's very poetic. I wanted to meet you for so long, Bastila. So _very_ long." His face was long with seriousness. "You were all the Republic had left, and I wanted you by my side to put your skills to good use. It is rare to find someone so young and talented at Battle Meditation."

"Is that all?" She peeked at him. "Is that why you wanted to capture me?"

"Yes. Your gift. That's why I wanted to meet you." Capture you. The heavy weight of his arm. "We could have used you to finish cleaning up the Republic. That was why I wanted you as my apprentice as first."

"'At first'? But now what? What?"

"Your eyes. Your hair. That nervous laugh. Your nose." He pinched it, and she wasn't in the least bit upset. "Your opinionated self and self-righteousness. You never shut up. But sometimes that's alright. Your hips. That way you walk away from me. When you insist on letting nothing go unremarked. When you look down, uncertain. But then you look up, and have no doubts and the ones you have you will ignore. If you had been my apprentice, we might have ruined each other."

Revan as her Master. He was too young, she was too old, but still, Bastila could nearly picture it. Would he ever tell her impatient she was, remind her of her parents, of every match she had lost in the ring, every little score and what was not perfect, and she was too focused on perfection and that was a failing as well.

Or would he have been absurd and charming, teasing her and sure to be surrounded by friends and followers constantly. Or he would be disgusting and piggish, and Bastila would have been forced to complain to the Jedi Council to switch Masters immediately, even if that meant being trained by say, Arren Kae…

"Or we might have had a clandestine affair and ran off to elope."

We would not have! She was coming up with all the ways to dispute that claim, but every time she reached the end, she couldn't recall what the top ones were.

That was bad, and so was his arm around her. He was bad. Malak really might have been the best man and some other lost Jedi, an exiled one, could perform the ceremony. And then. And then we could go back home, and see my Father. Everyone would be so shocked. I can picture my Mother's face if we showed up. That was funny. Run away like something from a dippy story they were both too old for. Leave the Republic and the Sith to tear each other apart.

But if they had done that, would there have ever been Sith in the galaxy?

"Wouldn't everyone be so appalled. I know I would be. I'm sure Malak would order the air strike on our honeymoon immediately. What a shame."

Why do you say things like that? Why do I have to imagine that? Why are you so…

"Why do you have to be so…compelling?" Bastila whispered near to his terrible lovely cheekbones.

"Ah."

"And so charming."

"Mm."

"And a _Sith._ Why must you be a Sith!?"

"I chose it."

"Unchoose it," Bastila demanded.

"I can't. It's too late."

"It is not."

"Everything is."

"We are still alive. So long as you are alive, you can decide your fate. Choose."

"Choose what?"

"To be a Jedi. To fight. To use the light side. To live."

"And you?"

"Yes." She dared.

"We could not be together if we were Jedi."

"But we could be friends. I would like that."

"Just friends."

"I believe we could move passed this, if we were friends."

"No," Revan decided, eyes narrow. "You could never keep away."

"I kept away from you just fine. Until you insisted on trying to be...more than friends"

"You were the one that stripped me naked."

"I did not! Oh, shut up! I was the only one trying to be restrained." Maybe she had undressed him, but that hadn't been her fault, not really.

"I remember how restrained you were."

"Awful. We are not friends."

"No, I could never be friends with someone so cruel."

She was so very drunk. And she wanted to put her head on his shoulders. They seemed nice.

"Even us Sith have standards," he continued. "Fast and quick. Dragging it out only distracts yourself from an enemy that might strike from behind."

"That's funny."

"I am a funny man." And very droll. "Dry. Sarcastic. Clever."

And handsome.

"That too."

Idiot. Still she rolled over into him and listened to his idiot giggles and babbling. "Maybe I should escort you to bed?"

Bastila was drunk (tipsy), not stupid. "No, thank you."

"Damnit."

"Let's stay right here."

"Oh, _yay_ then." His face was warm, pressed into hers. The stubble was prickly but not uncomfortable. Revan's arm was around her, and that was not at all bad. He was Revan, and too close, but also her friend, and that was oddly, hilarious. Wasn't it. Wasn't that amazing. He was Revan and she was on him, and that was all very nice. Look at that idiot right there. Once he had been so scary and now he was Bonded to her and wanted to kiss her.

"Shhh." She patted his armor, and remembered being so afraid when she thought he had died.

"Bastila? Bastila? You're drooling. You're a disaster. This is why we didn't take you with us to find the Mandalorians." But still he patted her hair and Bastila could drift away and hang onto him. Go ahead, strange little Jedi. Revan, who was the only thing left.

She closed her eyes.

Waking up was a unique experience that she could never tell anyone about. Horror and dizziness and nauseous. She was _dying_ , her tongue was a sponge and even with the light off, she felt knives stabbing into her shivering skull.

Then someone (him!) flipped the switch and shoved suns into her eyes.

She'd never had a hangover before. " _You bastard_."

He was grinning, and Bastila could happily remove strangle him. "Poor, poor Bastila. Only a single bottle of champagne too. I only wish Malak and I could have taken you to some of our old haunts. Have to drag you off the floor, wouldn't we? Or off the tables."

"You would have gotten me drunk?" She managed to ask.

"Yes. It's too hilarious to miss out on."

She was lying not on the bed, but on the ground. Revan hadn't even _let her on the bed._ He just sat there while she suffered. Almost admiring her pain, eating it up. This _complete_ _arse_ -lord foolish bastard that had let her drink most of the bottle while he'd only sipped two glasses of and even then she'd finished both of them _. Jerk._ "Here."

His fingers found her scalp and though it didn't make her hangover go away, it did help. As did him resting her head against him. The cold of his armor leeched some of the pain away. "Thank you."

"I do enjoy having Jedi at my mercy."

"Is that what I am."

"Incredibly so."

She plucked at the straps (partially for steadiness). "That armor is half the reason why we were so sure you are evil."

"You could take it off me if you want."

She squinted, and remembered fighting with the bits and pieces onboard that ship while everything shook. Just like right now, complete with the world twisting and bouncing around. Nothing had changed. "I never understood how it worked. Especially that belt."

He directed her. "Here. And here."

A gift.

One that she definitely couldn't take back. No matter how broken it was upon closer inspection. Hers. She clutched the belt, and hated him, and tried to recall that she had been relatively happy just a few hours before.

"I'm stuck with you as well, Shan." Then he gave her an obnoxiously loud kiss to the forehead and declared that she had to get up, right now, and drink this and not throw up even a little.

"Here. Drink this."

It was worse to drink, but Bastila managed, coughing all the while.

But she did not throw up. Not yet.

She was relatively at his mercy, but after all he owed her, what was this?

"Do you remember last night?"

Her mouth was dying, her tongue dead. Even her eyes had no moisture. She covered them and felt her hair spilling across her forehead and into her face. "You tried to propose again."

"Yes. And I never got a 'no.'"

" _No_."

"You're not much fun, Shan." He cupped the side of her head, stroking her cheek with one cold thumb. It hurt to move away. "In another time, you would have this hesitation."

"What time?" she demanded.

"Years ago. Half a generation before, and we would have had no shame in this coupling. It may have even been encouraged."

And who would root for this to happen? Who would point her at Revan, and Revan at her, and say, 'go get _married_.' "Why?"

"Think of our children."

She would _not._

Revan made his tone wistful. "Strong in the Force, bright, capable, perhaps your gift with Battle Meditation, mine with Bonds, your eyes…"

" _No_."

"Mm. Bastila. You think I can't see your hidden feelings, all there on that pretty face. It's obvious you pine for me. With every waking second and in every breath."

He wasn't discussing her. She looked at the cuffs of her sleeves. "Wishful thinking, Revan."

He wasn't discussing her entirely.

Then that strong hand dig into her chin, forcing her gaze up. There was no arguing with this hand. Bastila could nearly remember all of his earlier threats when they had first met, and could nearly be uneasy but even that was different. Everything felt different this morning, and it wasn't just her dehydrated mind. There could be more physical intimacy found after all. So much more, Revan would tease. Shut up.

"Don't be afraid of me. Not now."

"I'm not afraid of you."

"Yeah? Why not?"

"We both know I beat you the last time we fought." He laughed and displayed those sharp teeth, and Bastila rather enjoyed the sight.

"In certain cultures, there are more specific words for what we are."

She stared, annoyed and suspicious. "Yes?"

" _Bondmates_."

"Don't even start."

"I _did_ study Force Bonds. We are more than simple friends and partners. More than two lovers even. What we can share."

Bastila was aware of her body and its effect on him, of the fact that he found her attractive and that she _felt_ attractive like this. Sitting there, and with her friend-enemy with whom she cared for. Was this what it meant to be with another? Sure and confident, with them at least in these moments of intimacy? "If you didn't have that collar. If _only_."

Revan shrugged. "You're missing out as well. But I do think we have a chance for broadening our perspectives here. There haven't been many liaisons between Jedi and Sith Lords. That ended like this. Always did wonder what that Battle Meditation could be used for."

What was to even learn? The Sith dragged others down, if the Jedi did not bring them back to the light. "I am not going to show you how to further—you meant something perverted, didn't you? No, please do not answer that."

He was on a roll however, and she remembered Master Zhar speaking of Revan once, telling her with a surprising warmth and old grief how fond Revan had been of the Archives. "The Echani have no fear of nudity. Of bodies. They've embraced it. Moved passed the appeal of simply being undressed. It becomes cerebral. For people defined by combat, anyway. What gets them going is movement and words about that movement. Surprisingly cerebral.

"Mandos though, love armor. Being hidden and then exposed, broken. If they had all just focused on trying to get each other out of those crazy masks—"

"Like you can talk."

"The galaxy would be a better place," Revan finished.

"Is there any group in the galaxy you haven't…?" Caught herself before that word slipped out. What had he done to her?

"…metaphorically?"

"…"

"You have a very filthy mind, Shan. Surprising, for a good little Jedi." He pinched her and ignored her slapping at his hand.

"There were assassins I trained, and they used lust to shield their thoughts. Jedi just ignored them. Hell, Sith just ignore that too. I remember one guy." Revan laughed. "Gods he was sick—no one saw him coming. Literally."

Bastila didn't want details. "Yes, the Jedi and Sith should have just gone to bed with each other. Then Exar Kun would never have happened."

"Hey, look at us. Jedi and Sith, _technically_ sharing a bed, and not trying to kill each other."

"You may have some point. Minor. Beneath the filth. Is _love_ the thing that people need? Revan, tell me more about the secret of galaxy-wide peace?"

"If that's what you want to call it. But yes. If people were dumber or smarter, we'd just use our extra energy to screw each other. It might be healthier. But then the species that reproduce asexually would take over."

He could play it off all he wanted, but she knew better. "You've changed."

"Hung up my mask and now tell people to make love and not war?"

"It would seem that way."

"Imagine how good both would be."

Bastila huffed and made a show of pulling away. Disgusted with all of his antics. "I don't."

"Not yet. We'll see. You'll wish you had just offered yourself up to me when we first met."

His grin and challenge was a promise. And a dangerous thing that made Bastila regret even talking to him. Regret, nearly, saving him or at least having that conversation.

There would be another morning, in what passed for morning, where she awoke to his smiling face, to what he was holding, and knew it was all long in coming. So, this was a new script, and one Revan already had clearly planned out in detail. Awful things. What he wanted and to hear that, was already appalling, but then to go along with it would be another failing entirely. Yet Revan made his fondness for such a scenario apparent.

"I won't play along with some disgusting…role-playing."

"Tell me how awful I am."

"I won't…you are though."

"Yes. I am."

"Stop doing that." She did hate that armor.

Almost as much as she hated his pouting. "Well, since you won't."

Did she like this? His crassness and knowing smug grins? That hand around something far too familiar, and his awful face and his ugly, gorgeous voice. Did she like that?

Bastila supposed she might. "I never said I _wouldn't_ …"

One step led down a very dark road.

The Jedi Sentinel did go along with certain things. That would be her epitaph. For him, her enemy and lover, she would do things that would not go in her journal. Relent.

In the remains of his robe and some of the armor that was simply too loose, Bastila felt a fool. All the more when Revan dropped to his knees. "All hail Bastila, Master of the Sith."

"The things I do for you."

It was the worst thing she had ever done. No, second worst. No, _third_ worst—

There was a light in his eyes, dancing, and she felt uneasy, even sickened to be wearing his clothes. Pretending to be a Sith. How could she wear this, even with a grimace? How could she even enjoy (if only slightly) the smell of blood and sweat and some vague clinging smell of soap from the last time he'd showered as the Dark Lord of the Sith? At least it passed the time.

"You should have worn something that showed off your legs better. No Dark Jedi could have resisted."

"Including you."

"I'm a Sith. Higher pier. It would have taken more than a little skin to appeal to my sense, as fetching at these are." Undermined when Revan leaned forward to bite her knee through the folds in this black fabric until she was forced to nudge him away.

"This is absurd."

Her teachers would have been so horrified, twenty times over.

"Are you not happy, Master? Is there something I could to please you?"

Thirty times.

He thought it ridiculous, when she would reveal such uncertainty and shame to him. To him, in what passed for his mind, it was absurd to be so afraid of this insanity. And that's what it was, both agreed all around. 'Crazy. I mean. Of all people. _You_?'

But she still felt like Bastila Shan, a Jedi, one gifted with Battle Meditation, a member of the Republic she was sworn to protect.

No matter if her tastes had expanded and her senses had expanded. Yes, disturbingly, she liked holding hands. With _him_. Someone doing her braids for her, even if _he_ made a mess of it. Holding _him_ to her chest when he coughed and needed support. Shaking him by the shoulders, pining his hands behind his back. Sharing a bed with him, looking at him seemingly a normal man, and handsome against the sheets and their shared pillow. This, looking at him and him staring back and there no need for words.

But they always found time for them.

"You said you were no longer my arch nemesis?"

"You were never that to me."

Revan sniffed. "Well, doesn't someone think highly of themselves?"

"We'll never be friends though."

Friends and companions compared for one another. And they did not touch and squabble and argue as they did.

"That particularly river was crossed a while back. By default, we might be friends. I think we are. I'll give you this, if I _had_ to choose someone to be stuck with in this tin can, the fact that it's you is increasingly acceptable."

"Really?"

"Yes. It's much more fun to break a reluctant Jedi with the more minimum of tools."

Minimum, indeed.

Ugh, Revan had ruined her.

Revan made a show of comforting her after Bastila flinched. "Oh, Bastila. Can't change my spots. Stop pouting. I won't kill you. Not even if Malak rolled up and wanted to apologize and hand me a brand new ship." Slowly stroking her back as he went on, "It's true. You'd just be my little slave Jedi. Have so many outfits to try out on you."

She could speak again. "I renew my previous vow: I will do my utmost to prevent you from rejoining the Sith."

"So this is all just to distract me?"

Was it?

"No." The Padawan met muddy eyes. "No."

"Mm. Prove it."

She did and did and did again.

With every second that he was freed, every time she did not strangle him, every time she spoke to him and laughed at a joke and kicked him right back as he rolled over. I am a good person and a good Jedi, and so you better be too, or so help me, Revan, I will—

Hadn't always been like this, was what she clung to. Or maybe he had, years ago, a fresh apprentice that had spent time at the same Enclave she had. In a different room, across the halls. A different person, a boy still, prone to willfulness and long debates, hardly found looking up from a book. He was supposed to have been a librarian, Revan once whispered to her, and they both had laughed.

Not like you, Bastila. You were meant for greatness.

Was I?

The Jedi needed you so. So did the Sith. I had such plans for you, Miss Shan. I waited so long to meet you.

And she can remember him, as he had been, that frightening thing, that terrible thing. And before then, when he'd been that bright thing, that brave thing. Sibilant his voice had been. All those speeches, with that modifier on. So sure of himself he'd become that cause.

Awake on his skin, eyes closed and so close to hers. Noses almost touching.

Watch him come to life.

Beam wordlessly at each other, stupidly. Stupid. How could there be any hope or joy for either of them? Yet there it was. I'm happy? Yes, I'm happy. Why not laugh? You're an idiot. Well, so are you.

Even with the resentment and mistrust, knowing their lives would be ending soon enough, they could still be downright cheerful at times. Comfortable with each other, even as they bickered. It was unlike anything she'd felt before.

At all times, they were sure to keep the lights on. So long as they did that, things were alright and did not go _too far_ and ruin both their lives in some indescribable manner. It was bad, but not entirely too awful.

Unfortunately, Revan seemed to sense this topic lingering in her mind.

"I'll give you this." Revan began after one long stretch of simply staring at the ceiling. "The Jedi screw better."

Apropos of _nothing._

She had just been sitting there innocently, and he had needed to ruin everything. "What?"

"The light side is better at kinks."

How could she still be shocked by him? "I don't even know where to begin."

"Things are still taboo. And a lot of fantasies are better off not actually doing. Believe me." He shook his head, to her bemusement.

"What did you get up to?"

"Oh, a lot of things. And it was alright. Doing forbidden things in dark places. But it got boring once you've finally crossed off the things on that list."

"You grew tired of meaningless sex with strangers?"

"Never strangers, exactly. Light or dark, you still have to watch out for disease."

"Ugh."

"Keep that in mind in case you find yourself with that opportunity. It's just touching, inserting, a mechanical process. No matter how many people are there."

Wisely, the brunette did not linger. "When you do it free of attachment you mean?"

"That's why the Jedi are fine with screwing, but not the actual passion part. They've reduced it to the point that it's just flesh. And that's just boring."

He wanted affection, care, love. Those were failings, but different ones than she would have ever imagined.

"You really do want to make love to someone that cares for you, don't you?"

"And you want this to just be meaningless, if very satisfying and prurient. But it isn't. We're more than just bodies. I'm a Sith Lord, Bastila, and you're a good little Jedi, if not good enough to be a Knight yet."

What? She gaped at him. Stupidly, she had let herself almost be lulled by his almost-affection. Like a pet. Just a pet.

"How old are you? By your age, I had an apprentice."

But he had not had his training interrupted by a war that needed him. Even that was his fault. "It's not a race! No wonder you fell to the dark side with your massive amounts of arrogance."

"See. This is getting you hot. Because of the _passion_."

His threats of kisses no longer distracted her so much, or at least so easily. Or, rather, she did not feel like grabbing and suffocating him, or running away and screaming when he approached her. Bastila could nearly push him aside, even if it was with the aware that she might only be stalling him until later. "Why do you have problem with someone having a, say, detached approach to sexual activity?"

"I'm just trying to spare you the disappointment of that reduction."

She was making a face. "Of not being in love with the person I'm having intercourse with?"

A light dimmed in his eyes. "You know I'm right. No matter how divine my body is. If we met in some cantina and hooked up a power coupling, it would be boring."

A _what_? "Would it?"

Revan smiled back. "Because we know each other, there's actual appeal besides enjoying my perfectly shaped—"

"Oh, enough."

There was the warmth of his hand covering hers. "It's taboo breaking, and yes, comfort, that makes it worth even taking your pants off. Anyone can have sex, but can they do it and then stick around when they open their mouths to speak?"

"You should write a book about Sith and Jedi relations."

"A relationship advice book." A dark eyebrow rose. "I won't omit names."

"No, you wouldn't."

"Chapter One: How to Seduce Your Captive…"

"Shouldn't it begin with choosing the proper prisoner?"

"Ah, of course. The prologue. How to capture them through subterfuge and sneak attacks. Slip onboard their ship and catch them right at the exact moment when their idiotic apprentice decides to turn on them. Or perhaps through showing them a little skin and then clocking them on the back of the head as they drool."

Bastila wasn't even that angry when he leaned forward and tried and nearly succeeded, and damn him, damn her, damned the both of them were.

Later, sometime later, covered with that blanket and his robe, when they were separate and able to think:

"Who knew you can be such a sucker for romance?"

"Who better? I embrace all aspect of the Force, and not just the emotionless serenity crap."

"I can understand that. Even if I disagree."

This was the dark side then. A person you did care for despite your best efforts otherwise, telling you to embrace all you felt.

And Revan looked perfect stretched out, with his hands behind his head. The valleys of him made her understand erotic poetry and pornographic holovids. Hunger and lack of the dark side had awoken hollows in his cheeks, revealed bone structure hidden by seemingly dead muscles. Less and less intimidating by the day, and Bastila could nearly take comfort from the familiar marks and wonder with sympathy of the scars. Much prettier than Malak now, though she would _never_ tell him that.

Or write about it, for that matter.

"Is that a diary?"

"Yes."

It was a calming thing to write events, to leave tangible signs of how she felt.

"Writing about me? 'Oh, that frustrating Sith Lord with his rugged good look just tricked me into bedding him three times today. How tiring.'"

It was possible he did _sense_ how she felt about…certain aspects of him.

"That isn't what happened! You have not 'bedded' me. And I don't sound like that." She turned to a fresh page.

"We are in bed."

"Technically." But she sat on the foot while he stretched out and made sure to look comfortable. "But we have not been here _three times_."

There, there it was: the dumbest argument they'd ever had.

"Keeping count?"

"Not exactly."

Not…exactly.

At the least, it was impossible to recall and detail all of the little moments. Describe exactly what his lips felt like or the things he could do with those hands, just a curled finger could blind her when it traced down her throat. Or even write, 'violently considered kissing the Dark Lord of the Sith, and I do mean violently.' The awful things they knew about each other. Pages could be filled. Then immediately deleted. Soon, he would ask her to turn off the light, and let things further spiral out of control, and she wasn't entirely sure she would refuse.

Bastila knew. She had tried to catalogue some things. To admit in some form what she had done. But even trying to form complete sentences had been beyond her. She could flip through the pages and see her fondness for him growing, slowly, if only to inform whoever might be reading that Revan was as awful as they claimed, as scaly and detestable, but nevertheless, she would attempt to reach out to him.

"How else will people that find out cold corpses know of our struggle, though? If we are found and saved, what will you tell the Council?"

"The truth."

He pulled at her free hand, tracing the blue veins. "You'd have yourself exiled?"

If that's what her punishment would be for this, Bastila would have no choice in the matter. "I would accept their judgment."

"Including me executed?"

"No. They would not do that."

"Say they do. Do something besides putting me under lock and key, with conjugal visits from you."

' _Conjugal visits._ ' That one needed a moment to second to deal with. Her imagination was too quick to offer up images of asking the Jedi Council for that, and them even agreeing. For the war effort. Sacrifices must be made, and if this kept Revan in line to defeat the Sith, so be it. Could she preform both her duties at the same time? That would have been expected of her. Ugh. _Uuugh._ Insanity truly was contagious.

He continued, "Hand me to the Republic. We both know what _they_ would do to me. Steal my Force ability? I'd not be helpless, but vulnerable certainly. And forced to sit at the small table with the Exile during the holiday meals on Coruscant. Or mind-wipe me, which is even more cowardly."

"You want me to choose sides?"

"Or my punishment. That sounds fun. What would you like to do to me? Please no more restraints, Master." Then he paused. "Oh, _alright._ Just for a little while."

"Revan."

He spread his hands, waving them at the expanse of the ship. "All we have is this. Time in a vacuum."

"What if they did severe your connection to the Force? And exile me?"

"We really would run off together, wouldn't we?" That grin was one she might have seen on Dantooine, spotting a kath hound with a haunch of something grisly in its jaws.

"Is that what you want?"

"I want you. At my side. We both know only team would allow that. We'd sneak up on Malak and reclaim my mantle. Perhaps even…you might be correct about some things. In regards to fighting the Republic as I have, anyway. There might be a way for a truce to be drawn up. It won't last, but every being will be needed for the true war."

Better than she could have dreamed. Him, them, a blurry of emotions and all of them good. Blossomed hope. Bastila knew she was all but beaming, about to hug him with all the, _warmth and passion_ , yes, in her heart. "Revan. We've made a lot of progress."

"Yes. We have. Do you know why? No, it's not because of the Bond."

Revan was still holding his hand, looking at her across the sparse space between them. His head cocked so. The parody of a devoted suitor. Would he really get on his knees and make a show of proposing, ignoring her rolling eyes, her put-upon demeanor. Always the actor, and a hammy one at that. If only Bastila didn't know him so well, or if she could have handled his jokes better, or—no, if only Revan didn't insist on making light of everything. She would applaud him, and hope he would stop soon.

"Apprentice."

Her smile was leaving. He really was getting to his knees. There was nothing humorous about his eyes, flickering "I am not your _apprentice_."

"Partner."

No, go back. Get up and make a joke. You've made your point. She wanted to cover his mouth, her ears.

"Mate. Soulmate. Dear foolish young Padawan. My Empress." Revan looked deep into her eyes. "You who would be my apprentice. To whom I pledge a new galaxy to, and to whom I promise to never leave."

Stop.

"I have waited so long to meet you. Sometimes, I can believe it has been very nearly worth losing everything to come to this place. I am your man and will be your teacher. We are Bonded, and neither of us can argue with that fact. It is too late for either of us to escape, and _I don't care_. Right now, you are worth it and I don't care if this is what the Force wants. I want it. And you. As you do me.

“I know you love me, Bastila, and I’ve decided to forgive you for what you’ve done to us.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which one of our intrepid heroes tries to crawl out of the pit of insanity and the other learns to hate the phrase 'pulling a Bindo.'

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm completely sorry for the long wait for this part. It hovered around 80% done for the longest time until I finally sat down and finished this up. The reviews and likes that came in really did help remind me to finish this chapter up. 
> 
> Thank you for reading this far.

_Sweetness, sweetness I was only joking_

_When I said I'd like to smash every tooth_

_In your head_

_Oh ... sweetness, sweetness, I was only joking_

_When I said by rights you should be_

_Bludgeoned in your bed_

\--Bigmouth Strikes Again, The Smiths

 

 

_“There’s no need for you to make fun of her. She’s obviously desperate.”_

_“—_ I’ll _say.”_

\-- Bastila and Carth, Knights of the Old Republic

 

* * *

 

“Should I apologize?”

“I don’t know!” Her yell echoed, and in it he heard terror, disappointment, despair.

“Bastila,” he chided. “Are you really going to hide yourself away here than deal with this like a responsible adult?”

_“What do you know of responsibility!?”_

Gods, but he did love her screaming at him. Such passion he could wake in her. I am responsible for that. Him alone, Revan liked to believe. Surely the Jedi would have beaten such irreverence from her if she displayed that willfulness towards them. Only he could dig under her skin so, and vice versa.

He peeked over the cliff and into the deep dark void. Was this love? Attachment? Only partially literally.

Why _not?_

“This is another Sith trick. I was warned about those!” She was spinning around in a circle, arms flailing, feeling all of her few short years, with a high-pitched whine coming from her circuits. It was rather adorable.

“You think I’m lying? Yes, Bastila, I’m making this up. Don’t you just feel so much better.”

“A sick joke. Like when you made that proposition to the Senate!”

“You remember that?” How long ago was that? Revan groped for a year and a month. How old had she been? An eager young Padawan, hair up in those shorter pigtails, face all scrunched with self-righteous anger. Had she gone outside to swing a practice saber and daydreamed about facing and stopping Revan The Butcher? Her fellow students looking on, an indulgent master in the shadows watching with a small smile that they would never let her see. Had her abilities manifested themselves, or had she been just another Jedi-In-Training? A little torpedo aimed at him.

Bastila paused from climbing the walls and gave him a sour glare he could feel. “You’re a liar, Revan! All your promises are poisoned and your word is worthless.”

“…Why would a lie? To _seduce_ you? Because I’m pretty sure we crossed that line a while back. Don’t you remember?” Revan liked that look on her face. “That time you fell asleep on me. When you kissed me. The times we shared a bed. Or did I imagine all of that?”

There was a nearly-audible sound of guilt and self-hatred hitting Bastila. All that doubt just crushing down, regret heavy to drown her, and all her failing smothering. It seared him. He knew all the excuses and stories she told herself to get to sleep—only to awaken next to him, clinging to what she should hate. Revan, who saw and accepted.

“Why must you continue to deny yourself to me? _Of course_ I adore you. You know that, you’ve known that for some time now. There’s nothing either of us can realistically do about it,” Revan said, reasonably. “After all, there is that Force Bond, all our fights, your _voyeurism_ , the constant presence of one another and you being the only person here…”

“And only woman,” she muttered darkly.

“Don’t be absurd. You think gender has anything to do with our position?”

They had been getting along so well too.

Bastila had looked less and less ill after their passion was brought to a peak and teetered there, abandoning some of the sullenness following brief reprieve where they examined the space separating them. Those times when she would laugh and not bother to cover her mouth. His favorite Jedi often resembled a child after she laughed at another joke, (once literally falling out of bed) but less and less a youth that had eaten too many sweets and would now be ill. He mused on her smiles. Yes, that sounded right; she didn’t have the expression of one that would now vomit any second and probably onto him.

When it happened—when Revan had her besides him finally, lying there, they looked like equals and there was less scorn between them on the whole.  No one cried, at least not in self-loathing and despair. Usually. 

Bastila sighed for a long time. “Jedi cannot _have these feelings_. They cannot lo--lo- _-love_.” She choked out the word, and he felt pride tempered by annoyance.

Oh Bastila.

He wanted to pinch her cheeks and suffocate her with a pillow.

How dare she act this way, when it was everything she’d hinted of earlier when he’d still been tied up and forced to deal with her taunts that were free from any repercussions? ‘Accept your feelings and responsibilities, Revan,’ she had whined at him so many times in so many words. Wasn’t this what she’d warned him of, when telling him that she might feel the same, and was so much more mature about handling such a thing? Now she just expected him to act like this was something less than roofs falling in and innards crumbling from the sheer pressure of their connection?

He felt like his old self again, the one that might not fully believe in the old myths about Sith Lords able to destroy suns, but willing to give it a go. No visions pulled at him, no worry of fate and the Republic and the Sith, no light or dark. They were free here, to slowly die of starvation or oxygen deprivation or eventual suicide. Her with the blaster to his head, he with the lightersaber’s hilt pressed to hers. Or would her hand teeter, and the light not leave, but _shine_ instead in her pale eyes as she said, ‘ _Yes_.’

But wasn’t that the fun?

“They _can’t_ , Revan. Not individuals. Attachments and such passions are not allowed. And certainly Sith cannot care for others.”

As though the Jedi hadn’t relied and tied themselves so strongly to the Republic when it suited them. As if they were no longer attached to their Order. And all those arguments fell short of this smothering anger.

“Oh, yes we can. You said it when you spoke of us being together.”

“That was not like this! Not exactly…”

“It’s fine for me to love you anyway, but impossible for you then?”

Revan could see her through the door. Her looking up, alive, furious, heat in her cheeks. Her mouth fell open, closed, opened again. The anger was directed at both of them. “I don’t know how I—how I’m supposed to _help you_! I’ve never met anyone like you.”

His hand rose to stroke the door. “Flatterer.”

“I didn’t mean it was necessarily a good thing.”

“That’s alright.” She needed reassurance and that Revan could offer. “Since this entire rescue mission of yours has gone terribly, what’s another thing for you to screw up? I adore you Bastila, and I know you care for me just the same.”

She ripped open the door, a flood of dark hair and lips narrowed to a thin line. “Entitled, delusional fool.  Do you have any idea of what you’re even asking for? We can’t. I don’t—I mean, this cannot be right.” Bastila sagged against the doorway.

He went to her, to whisper in her ear, to be the one to catch her should she really have a full psychotic breakdown. Took her rounded shoulders in his hands to look deep into her darting eyes. “’Right?’ You think if you don’t have feelings for me, you’d be in the right still? Who cares about anything so binary? Perhaps I am romantic: I can live with this. With you.”

“You have no choice in that matter.” Her eyebrows contracted. He could smell the smoke as her brains melted. “Did you say something about you being ‘romantic’? I thought that involved…I don’t know, flowers perhaps?”

“You can have my share of vitamins.”

But not his nutribars.

“It’s hardly been two, no, three weeks, if _that_!”

Or his crackers.

“Still, I know what I feel.”

“…the forced captivity!”

“So? We got to know each other better during that time. I won’t lie to either of us because of your Code.”

“After all you’ve done, and how _unrepentant_ you are—“

“Regardless. You’ve driven me insane, and it’s become perversely satisfying.”

You could almost witness her trying to disconnect herself from this moment. A tether she unhooked so easily, and Revan wondered to what degree she was capable of detachment. “You are a masochist then. Self-absorbed and delusional to the point of psychosis. If not a liar.”

“I’ll order the Sith Empire to build monuments to you. Temples to worship you. Holos devoted to our sex lives— _more_ of them. Six children with your eyes.”

Take in the whites of her eyes as she refused, repeated to herself comforting lies. “You can’t love. Sith are incapable of it. It requires mercy and compassion. You—we are not in love, Revan.”

“If there has ever been anyone that can beat the odds and do the impossible, it’s me.”

She squinted in the face of his optimism. “Are you still a Sith Lord? Are you capable of disowning you war against the Republic, and repenting what you did?”

“A whole new reason to fight the true enemy. _For you.”_

“I need an answer!”

Bastila was not one to be backed into a corner. She came out, enraged and completely willing to twist his head around and then beat whatever was left to a bloody shred. If pushed, she pushed back and then clawed and then kicked. Should they were ever found, the Padawan might make it certain his body could not be identified. There would be no greater sign of how she really felt for him, for those that could understand.

“Bastila, I adore and love you to the depths of my black dead heart.”

His favorite Jedi looked ready to prove his observation and lose all of self-restraint. Clock him one and loosen a tooth. Or strangle him. Hands held out and outstretched wanting an answer and planning to get it via choking. She really _had_ been listening to his lectures about other cultures and their feelings on combat and sex.

“How am I supposed to believe you? How can you even feel that way? _How_?” Bastila demanded.

“Don’t care about the why or how. I just do. _I do_. That’s what I’m telling you right now with all my soul and being. That’s what I’ll say at the marriage alter too.”

She covered her face. “This can’t be happening.”

He took her hand, and peered deep into her eyes. "Come on. Don’t be afraid. Let’s pull a Bindo.”

The Padawan recoiled, horror twisting her face. “You are not sincere.”

“We’re made for each other. It cannot be denied. Only you, Bastila Shan. Our love will just have to change the scope of the galaxy. I won’t let it _not_ affect others, and maybe even for the better. Think of the lessons our connection could teach the Jedi Order. Would that make you happy?”

“ _Why_?”

“There’s no option to not love you, Bastila. I just do. I’ve never felt stronger than with you. Relatively. Taking into account the muscle loss from captivity. And still having to wear this collar.”

She looked up, eyes so wide and scared, and Revan knew he wanted to comfort her. “The sex would be pretty great, too.”

Bastila disappeared back into the ‘fresher.

But she would be out soon. Couldn’t stay in there forever. The food was out here. This slip of a woman would leave the as soon as she began to starve. He might have to make a trail of crumbs to lead her out, but he’d do it. Bastila Shan might be the first person he had proposed to, but would not be the first Jedi Revan lured into a trap.

And she acted like she was the one with something to struggle with. When he willingly submitted to the idea that he could and even did love another person, allow his heart to open and her to reach in and walk off with him while he floundered about on the ground. How dare she act like this was hurting her, when she was the one leaving his blood to splatter the walls in steady pulses? When she was the one to get the pillow _at least_ half the time?

He sat at the table, adjusting what remained of his clothes. She had really half-stripped him back on his ship. How had Bastila pulled back for so long? It had made things all the more satisfying, admittedly, but why did she question it now?

The damn Jedi. This is what they did to their finest, even now? Made them basket cases, afraid of everything while telling the Padawans that fear led to the dark side. Love, too, was a constant danger. It led to the dark side, he’d heard a million times until he was using the dark side and then told that love was still a danger to forgetting himself. Couldn’t win either way using either of those Codes, so both would have to be chucked for something in-between. 

Attachment. For each other, and it would lead them to rule the galaxy together. Fated, perhaps. Bitterly amusing for everyone else. If anyone laughed in their presence about the pigtailed Jedi and the masked Sith Lord falling in love, he’d cut their tongues out and make a bouquet of them for her. ‘It’s symbolic,’ he’d shout at her reeling, disgusted form. ‘You should be flattered I care so much. Do you have any idea how much blood there was for the droids to clean up?’

They could be married by Vandar, and find some way for them all to survive-- _hypothetically speaking_ , should he want to just give up the Empire he had been building. Yes, all of them, even the Council, even if it ruined their honeymoon. Bastila did have a point or two, after all, and for her, Revan could give up a _few_ things. Hell, it would give him a chance to get revenge against Malak. Let him keep that empty title. It was a meaningless vanity that Revan was bigger than. Yes, _yes_ , he was. That had only been a distraction. Now it was time to get ready for the true war, that was the reason to continue on, no matter what side he was on. And a chance to get into Bastila’s robes on a frequent basis.

Like she could sense his thoughts, his favorite Jedi Padawan opened the door.

Pale and pouting. Lovely, and dangerous. Best to remain low-key. Let her take the lead. “I don’t know what you have planned—“ She was stopped short when he tried to take her hands and they had a brief awkward struggle over palms and fingertips.

Revan let it go when she began to apply her nails. “It’s irrelevant. We probably won’t make it another two weeks before we commit a lovers’ suicide. I want you to shoot me first.”

“…I can do that.”

“Jokes aside, I’m not sure I have it in me to see you die. Sure, I’ve thought about it. It’s been one of my favorite fantasies. Especially the one where you and Malak duke it out for my affections. Or the one with you dropped into a nest of rabid, starving kinraths. But now such a thing hardly makes me laugh at all anymore.” Revan sighed, forlorn. “I want to die before you. Maybe you don’t believe the full extent of my feelings, but can you accept that?”

“I suppose. If—“

_“If_ we’re caught by the Sith, what would you do? Will you kill me?”

How he loved her indignant expression. This one of the more frustrated variety. “Are you saying that if we found Republic ships, you’d kill _me_?”

“Stop it, Bas. No more thoughts like that. We’ve transcended the issue.”

“’ _Bas_ ’?…that wasn’t a ‘no’ I noticed.”

“Sith and Jedi don’t matter. Just titles that you’re trying to cling to in order to deny how you feel.”

“I know how I feel. Even if I don’t quite understand how our relationship came about. Why I even allow you…”

“Allow, beg, same thing, huh? You talk of redeeming me, but would that mean you might join _me_? My side? I’d make you chocolate cupcakes every day. Teach you to use the Force in ways you haven’t imagined. I’ll make you the greatest swordswoman the galaxy has ever seen. I’d give you whatever you asked. Gifts of entire planets. Only the finest fudge icing.”

“I’d like to see you in an apron,” was the closest thing he got to an admission.   

“If we are though? Whose side are we drifting through? Unless Malak really is as bad as we both fear. Probably theirs.”

“’Theirs’?”

“Ours.”

Smug. “Was that another slip?”

“Yes. The traitorous dogs. I was only using them for my own gains. Who could support those bastards with their idiotic armor? Have you seen the Empire’s flag? They were pawns and I’m done playing games. Take me back to the Republic, and I’ll be good. Well. I’ll still be naughty, but only with you.”

“There was some truth in that.”

“Want me to get the stun cuffs?”

Gods, her eyebrows could contract in such ways that somehow managed to be fascinating. “I _meant_ that they were pawns.”

“Everyone is. Except me. I’m the wildcard.”

“Wrong game.”

Revan hadn’t grinned so much since the Mando wars. They had underestimated him then, too. “I fought the Mandalorians against the Council’s wishes. Found the real Sith Empire that waits in the Outer Rim. Formed an Empire to stop them. I would have fought and beat them too if it weren’t for you meddling Jedi.

“Particularly this cute one I’ve had my eye on just recently…maybe you’ve seen them around, dumb accent, weird haircut—”

“Revan.”

“—Really blonde hair? No? Have to settle for you then.” He exhaled, heavily.  “Or maybe I’m the Force’s pawn. Can’t escape that. Out of everyone, they sent you, with your gift of Battle Meditation to distract my armada. How many have that talent? Innately, and to your degree? With enough Jedi of such skill to slip by but get close enough to find me? Right as Malak turned against me? Enough injuries to incapacitate but not kill me? This ship, just waiting there to prolong the agony. Is there a lesson here the Force wants me to learn?”

She opened her eyes. Perfection with her looking so tired and wary. Bastila needed his help in finding their way through this minefield of potential psychological mishaps and trauma. Who better? “Malak has been planning this for awhile, I believe. He practically helped us onboard the ship.”

“…see I’m learning all sorts of things.”

From the sudden light in her eyes, perhaps Bastila loved seeing him irked as well. “Trusting in the Force is a good thing, Revan. It will help us, if we let it.”

Still trying to make him a Jedi again. Bastila still saw in those terms, but maybe that would pass. Shove aside and reject all that, roles and alliances. They had moved beyond titles, whether or not she was willing to accept that completely. Affection, a trust for the other, was what was needed to get them there, to this state.

Besides, he needed her Battle Meditation for the true war that was coming, and she needed someone that put up with her speeches. If any of that mattered anymore. Truly, they needed someone to talk to, and any physical distractions were welcome. No one wanted to die alone, bored and starving.

Had he been at his fleet, he would have been facing Malak’s new apprentice in combat perhaps, or to train him, always expecting that finally stab from behind. Perhaps he would be busy also breaking his newest plaything into the right shape. Would that be Bastila? Perhaps.

Put her in black and show her the right way, to embrace and understand all of the Force and not be shackled by fear. Slowly shed those layers of control until she was exposed for the proud warrior she was, all fury and strength, and then let her loose. Together, they would beat Malak and his own fighters that might dare to make a move, and then turn to the Republic for the end. Apprentice and lover.

He looked down into her eyes, closing the distance. “I’ll let you in one this, I do prefer brunettes.”

Her knife was ready. “Is that why you and Malak had a falling out?”

“Yes, without that hair…it really put things in perspective.”

“Plus the jaw…”

“Exactly. You’re a much better replacement, Apprentice.”

What better way than to perish right here, like this? Perhaps they truly might die screwing each other. How fitting. At least they might go making fun of his old apprentice. They wouldn’t walk away from this, obviously. No matter how they might like to imagine scenarios where they could be together in some galaxy.

Her in chains. His plaything.

See them together, him restored with her at his side. All the games they could play in the galaxy so reshaped for them. It would end with death, but what did not? If Revan died at Bastila’s hand, good to have marked her so, and better than perishing at Malak’s. She at his, so be it, he could not let her go free and apart from him. At each others. How else?

That was currently the direction they were heading in, anyway.

“Revan.” Bastila grabbed his own shoulders, hands cold and strong. “I don’t entirely believe you… but I do think that you _think_ you want to be capable of those feelings.”

“Is that your version of a proposal?”

A mistake, his attempts at devotion had been.

It only gave her more ammunition. More speeches. Ah, gods, more of them. She would go on and on about how she could save him from the dark side, not stopping when they ended up in bed together and Revan would roll over onto her. Which, even then, didn’t necessarily stop her lectures. It just made her punch and yell while going on with explaining why he’d been wrong to fight the Republic. With one hand she could push his jaw away and fumble with a lecture with the other. “So you see…stop doing that with your tongue!”

Bastila did take some strength from him, as he did her, no matter how fruitless it was. From the other’s frustration, anyway. The Jedi was determined to reach for him, and hold his head still and refuse all dedications but to the Order.

Bastila thought of herself as a savior, like he had.

After, after, when he’d settled into resting his head in her lap like a sick pup, her resting the Holo against his forehead and sick of another chapter about the necessity of celibacy in unnecessary detail, Bastila would peer down at him. “Did you say you’d give me whatever I asked?” She startled herself with the question.

“I don’t recall saying that exactly.”

“Really? I thought Revan never went back on his word.”

“Let me recall. Oh, perhaps I muttered something about helping you reach your potential as the Jedi would never let you, _yes_. What is you want, Bas? My apprentice. What _can_ I do for you?” He peered up at her, voice a low purr.

“May I ask you to avoid all comments regarding your supposed feelings of infatuation?”

“…No.”

“Then, don’t call me ‘Bas’ again.”

He was happy, he was content. He was tired of hearing of the dangers of physical affection. He wanted caffe. He wanted to run around a grassy field again and go swimming.  

He imagined, at first after the initial (disturbing) adolescent fantasies were discarded, that it would be borderline terrible. Too familiar with their Bond and their fights. It might be like screwing a dear friend after long years of denial. It might be like fucking himself. It would be terrible and lead to the downfall of an Empire, a Republic.

It was worse.

It was… _alright._

It took on an air of _just was,_ like the flickering lights and loose wires and scuffed floor. It was what it looked like from on the outside, two people that were growing to care for one another, expressing their attraction and longing in that simple dumb way. He leaned in and she pulled away. Some cliché and it wasn’t like anything else he’d felt before—just sitting next to her could boil his blood, make the hairs on the back of his head twitch, find his tongue clumsy as he took in the span of her fingers and small palm not so far from his own.

Not like cornering a friend one day and their strange copulating that had ended long ago. Curious Jedi that wanted to wallow. The nameless warriors such as the Echani at certain events and their expectations and freedoms. Sith buzzing around like flies, but no, at least Revan had been smart enough to avoid dipping into that well.

What was the common link, if any? Strength? Domination and fights that ended with that necessary conclusion? Light eyes maybe, oh, maybe he had a type…pretty pale eyes and a flair for Doing the Right Thing, that liked to argue and looked so good in the Holos. Heroes that he never really was, could never really be. They _were_ , with no guile or lies, and he could nearly admire that.

He shared a bed with her. He went to sleep and awoke next to her. They talked all day, and fought and once she demanded a formal apology when he scooped her up into his arm, and was tickled instead. He told her of an old party he’d attended full of pomp, desperately boring, and how much more fun it would be if she had been there for him to ask for her hand, just like _so_ , and never mind about the lack of music. Her laugh reverberated through him when he warned her to watch her hands. Revan didn’t mind when she led. If they had ever met in a different circumstance, it surely would have ended with them killing each other.

Revan had been lost from the moment she moved closer to him in that refresher. Just struck down. Their fingers had even found each other in that steamy haze, as though the final indignity of holding hand was one that had to be completed. Bastila’s eyes were more grey than blue, truly. Fog and sea wind that come from the shoreline.

(They could have wept. Or laughed.)

It was too much, too pleasant and kind. Nothing what either had expected.

In a not-parallel universe, this would have been terrible. This connection and their feelings would be trouble, and would breed only pestilence and violent rage that she would dare to approach him, that he would ever dare to touch her. Revan would have murdered her without a second glance, had nearly done that not long ago and the concept still lay between them. She had come there to convert him back to the light side, to return with him in chains, or to kill Darth Revan no matter how she ranted of undeserved pity while he looked on patronizing. 

But _here_. Here it was different. Scream as he fell over the edge, but not necessarily in rage or anguish. ‘ _Come what may’_ could be the sweetest words. Put your head down and accept what joy you had left. Tumble over with a grin and a laugh. He will recite Mandalorian poetry as well now, jumbling it and hearing her criticism even as she will refuse to recite a single ballad in ode of his infamous mask.

The Jedi was thinner, but the purple marks under her eyes seemed to have abated a little. A slight flush to her face that wasn’t always from anger. Neither had any tics and the argument were fewer, gentler, involved less violence and threats of evisceration. When she slept, it was with a growing ease that amazed them both. Wake up and find the other there and both still breathing and neither caring where that lightsaber was anyway.

(except they knew, they always had to know where it was, _just in case_ )

It was for her that he unraveled limbs and left the bed to inspect all the damage.

Though there was comfort to put his hands to work. Not that they didn’t often get a workout, but that was rather different.

He lacked the full connection to the Force, thanks to her little gift around his throat, but there was still that Bond to draw from. With that, he could feel the echoes of his effect on her and her on him. Years before, when he’d been half a child still, Revan had studied such things. The linkage of everyone through the Force, and the yolk of it that bound everyone together in such intricate ways. How one could be twisted against their will due to another. Revan of all people knew firsthand what it meant to go against your better judgment for another’s sake. 

Remember older lessons. Lavender flowers in bloom that were twisted and woven with clever fingers. His first time with a droid and his childish delight at opening it up to see how it worked and never mind the mild electrocution. Behind an ancient fighter controls, unbeknownst to his Master.  What Revan had almost forgotten.

Old days of yesteryear. Before he was The Revanchist. What had happened since then? He had taken and then broken vows. Things that could not be forgiven, even after everything they did. 

So this was regret. To miss the old and wish to do things differently. Selfish this was, to wish it hadn’t been him. He had stopped the Mandos and would the new threat that grew beyond the edges, but wished, for the first time, that it hadn’t been him. That he had never become the Revanchist, had not replaced his name with that title, and wasn’t a Jedi. Neither of them Jedi and just two people, maybe he would be an artist or a mechanic and her a nurse or musician.

Just for a little while. To see how different their lives would have become. Foolish dreams. How many people would have died if they hadn’t been who they were, but he wanted a different life?

No, not for a little while. Years together, Revan wanted, to explore the galaxy together. To be great Force users and to see what could be found. As his Masters had chided him, he wanted too much. Took on too much. Expected too much. Never calm. Revan had always been the type to want his cake and to eat it as well. Who wasn’t? But Revan could actually reach out and do it and had gorged himself.

…now he had a sudden craving for cake.

Damnit.

He missed those things. Food synthesizers and cooks in the kitchen. Even the Republic mess halls. Campfires around huddled tents as rain came down and trying to find something dry to shove down.  The warm long sloped kitchen at the Temple and warm never-ending plates of food it seemed, especially when he began to grow and was always hungry. The little things.

When was the last time he’d been starved like this? A gnawing in his stomach that could not be fully ignored when alone. The things you took for granted and forgot.

Some caffa, burnt and from the bottom of the urn, without sugar or cream. His empire for a chocolate bar.

It didn’t help that calories were constantly being burned in every word spoken, every fight, every time he left the bed.

How much, how many, how often…?

They both decided to avoid keeping count. For dignities sakes, that old friend that they’d so mistreated. It wasn’t enough, that was what mattered when it came to record keeping. Every fight blended into another, and he had forgotten how good simple bodily conflict could be. Until they were sore and unable to move, and still, lying next to each other, with one glance it could become very _dangerous._ Tangled loose clothes and blood in their ears. Avert eyes and for a moment, everything else. No, they didn’t dare keep score, but Bastila claimed she was winning.  

Ah, but now he wanted to wake Bastila up.

Hear her grumbles and laughter, her wild grimaces while he moved to kiss her with an exaggerated pout, when she tossed her head back to reveal the muscles of her throat. Pull her into his arms and hear her grumbled laughter that would come eventually, the crude physical joining that fell short of what could be felt through the Force. Silver-bright eyes that she disliked comparisons made about and the span of her waist in his hands, muscles that twitched when she caught him staring too long. Her brown hair would be a mop of snaggled curls for him to tug and sort and watch the tension ease from her shoulders. Message her scalp and see her eyes become half-lidded. Nap in Revan’s arms like a kath hound in the sun, once, only once and she would deny it after. Her bared arms had really been as lovely as he’d imagined.

Every time next to her would rise his heartbeat, when they lingered around the other like fog, and Revan remembered a trip to Telos, before the war, and the way the grey sea had rolled onto the shore. When I was a boy, confused and frustrated, before I even picked up my Mandalorian trinket I thought I would die wearing. There were polar ice caps somewhere far north that kept the water clear of the worst of the pollution. You felt small there in those earthbound clouds, facing the waves. The color of her eyes.

Connect this and that. Wish for a working soldering iron and better tools and don’t stoop for too long. Again, another light nosebleed that no longer bothered him so much.

His back still hurt. Muscles not entirely healed, headaches still came, and either way, he would not be walking around for long. Long standing trauma, and sometimes his chipped teeth ached and felt loose. There wasn’t anything very charming in the mirror when he looked at his reflection. As Bastila herself would comment, watching him with one hip against the wall. ‘Still vain, Darth Revan?’

‘Am I not the handsomest Sith Lord you’ve bedded?’ Turn, aware and playful and chase her while she fended him off and tripped over a chair. Threaten to carry his prize back to the bed or the table or to the ground that in those moments felt too far away. _I_ saved you Revan, don’t make me regret that any _more_! They fed into each other, knowing how the other felt only added more fuel, and of course they could feel how the other felt and knowing that—it was a confusing mess of narcissism and greediness and complete abandonment and selflessness so complete and acceptance so utter that he didn’t even need the Force to know her so utterly and well. 

Every time he looked at her, it was for the first time. Everything felt new _. Every time._

It was a strange damnation, to love another, but it was one that he deserved. One that she didn’t, however. Bastila could have been so much more. Perhaps the Republic could have won the war after all if they’d had her. If she had been able to grow further, she might have even discovered patience, and could have been a decent Jedi after all. Perhaps, yes, she could have gone on to eventually defeat Malak, if she had just left him to die there.

She _should_ have, and Bastila had even nodded when he’d told her that last. ‘But I couldn’t.’

Shan talked in her sleep, nonsense and Revan would lie there, listening and making out such words to string together nothing—and then Bastila would roll over. Away or closer to him, and he would experience her all over again. His own state for her. And the Jedi wondered why he was so needy in the mornings. Stop poking me in the forehead with your thumb, Revan! Was it flattering, or appalling, that was something she wrestled with almost audibly and right then he would adore her and know better than to continue to let her think without any distractions.

The sound of her waking tore an aorta in his heart. The mysterious expansions of this Other you could not stop obsessing over. Her sighs and even her rolling over made him so aware of his stomach, of his entire physical being.

“What are you doing?”

That was a question that had answers with so many layers.

_You, dear_ and then have to dodge her throwing something at his head. Entertaining, but wariness had sunk down to his bones.

Revan would just ignore her until she snapped and threw something at his head.

“It won’t help. I’ve tried. Revan? _Revan_?”

Revan looked up, this close to either shoving her into the pilot seat for purposes it wasn’t intended for, or finally strangling her.  “And no one can succeed at something you failed at, right?”

Smaller, out of her boots and softened from sleep, milky from this imprisonment. Hair no longer in such an elaborate coif thanks to him. Clothed not in ego (her last shield) but in a blanket pulled around her shoulders. Unintentionally and thus all the more infuriating, that how such a sight could make something grow weak and muddied. She was Vulnerable, and with such a dangerous monster.

Should he be kinder? That now came to him, seeing her glaring at him. His lover. You were supposed to pamper and care for your significant other. Not sneer and mock them. Even he knew that. But Bastila did so love a challenge.

A headache built behind his forehead. “Why don’t you help me? You are aware of the concept of not being useless?”

On the other hand…he was the still same man that had laugh uproariously when seeing Alak returned in the early days of the war. Squint had stood there, staring at him and running a hand over his smooth scalp. “They removed my hair. That mad dog Demagol was there—I was tortured, Master.” Still, Revan had thrown his head back and laughed himself sick. Relief, more than anything, _truly_. He’d even clapped the larger man on the back and everything.

Especially when his hair wouldn’t or didn’t return.

And Malak had never gotten that nameless person he had developed feelings for whom Revan had never met, that shadowy girl before the war had fully broken out.

“What are you grinning about?”

Revan let the smile shrink. “Just thinking how lucky I might be.”

Bastila almost bought that. “I’m sure. The galaxy is probably pleased that your reign has ended.”

“Which part of the galaxy? The one on fire from Malak, or the part that welcomed my rule?”

Which always put heat into her eyes and durasteel into her spine.

Bastila always needed that little push. She was still young, and somehow had convinced her that all she had was that Battle Meditation, and that was it, and that was all she needed, and you should be lucky she bothered with you. Resentment and duty all so intermingled. The pride and dread, they need me, they have only this need of me. I am all. I am not enough.  

What do I want from you?

She started to get dressed, pulling on shoes and her own mask.

Please, no, stay like that.

Bastila felt some of that, and looked up, a little shy. Her hair hung loose around her face, softening the angles. Carefully, “I thought you’d given up on life?”

There was nothing in this place he could safely destroy, so he was left taking his fury out on himself. The muscle in his thigh hurt after a good punch, but it did clear his head from the fog of a headache. “Gods damn it. I want you to live. You’re a part of me. It gets harder and harder to care if I live or die, but you…”

Bastila remained frozen.

She didn’t want to hear it, and Revan could have laughed at this. Why not? All of this just one big joke on him. All the things he’d done to make himself stronger to fight the enemy, the things of his downfall, only to discover and disgust the single person he wanted to save from that enemy. Why did she push him away, as though they could have any future? There would never be anyone to judge them but themselves.

Why not just give in and say it, just say it Bastila.

“I’d rather not see you die. It would be painful, what with our _Force Bond_ and all.”

She gave him a flat stare.

“Take the lifeline that’s being offering here. See how sensitive I’m being…It’s for your sake I’m picking my words carefully, you see.”

The Jedi Sentinel came at him. Her hands were all calm on the back of his head and on his chin, firmly holding his head in place as she gazed upon him. Nothing like anyone else had stared at him, exasperation, disapproval and fondness, tenderness. Should they kiss, properly, both self-aware, it would have been like Revan imagined the CPR she vehemently denied having given him would be like. Gestures were worth more than words, sometimes. It would have been had been serious, all dark eyebrows drawn close, and brow furrowed (Revan would have peeked and winked at her when she did the same).

It was almost funny, but even Revan knew better than to laugh at such close range.

“ _Revan_.”

“What?”

Her look not-quite-plaintive. What did she want now? Oh. That? And how she claimed to just be playing along and was so above caring for him. What a nice change of pace. Mornings might become a frantic time for them both, it seemed. “Oh. If you insist.”

“What? No, I wasn’t— _Revan_. Would you desist?”

Bastila would not admit to how she felt entirely, but was flattered to know he cared. Enjoyed his touch, even as she slapped his hands away. A pleasant thing to learn. Such a journey of explorations. Plumb the depths, search deep inside himself and in her, and thank the Force he hadn’t said that aloud.

He smiled and breathed close to her neck. “I think you like me.”

“Get away from me.” But she was flustered, and it was alright to stand near and watch her face flush and her nose scrunch up in that way of hers. “I simply wanted to ask if you need me—required my assistance. In fixing the ship.”

A break in the pilot seat then? The aptly named part of this ship, and how she grimaced when he said that. Even as she did settle next to him, so close, to inspect the tips of his bleeding fingers and apply a bandage.

“I bet you could have flown away if you’d picked a better ship. You are good at the controls.” He leaned closer, almost falling out of his own seat, the better to see the way her mouth pursed. “Don’t care what they said after you crashed that flight simulator back at the temple.”

Her back straightened. “ _What_? How do you know about that?!”

“Are you kidding? No one’s ever actually damaged the simulator like that before. How long did it take for them to fix it after your tantrum?”

“I am a good pilot. The next time I used it, I got a perfect score.” It was an argument she’d had before.

“Because the machine was so _scared_ of you. It remembered what you did to it. Oh, Bassy, don’t start pouting. Please?” For her sake, Revan would play-beg. “Please. I’m just kidding. You can show me what a good pilot you are, and bring my flagship to port? I hear you got a perfect score when you tried this at simulation.”

“Sith Spit.”

“I do not.”

She made a face or pain, of a plea for mercy aimed at the Force. “I just realized you’ve discovered a whole new avenue of pun and references to pervert.”

“Hah, guess I do.”

“Your ‘ _flagship,_ ’” Bastila grumbled. “No wonder Malak crushed it so easily.”

They at least had this. Would always have this for as long as they live. Such lovely memories of such banter. He really hoped she wrote this all down in her journal for future archivist to record. Their long lasting contribution to the Jedi Civil War. His blood on her ends of her fingernails.

“Stop grinning like that.” Still she inspect and wrapped his fingers so carefully.

“Yes, dear.”

He _couldn’t_.

All of this was so idiotic and painful. All of this.

Revan recalled being so drunk he could hardly walk, half a teenager, reeling, and Bastila with alcohol for perhaps the first time in her life, exhilarated and speaking too quickly and loudly, wavering visibly when he smiled at her. How could another person have such a strong pull on his emotions, wreck him so, break him into tiny pieces and then put him back together again, angry and resentful for having to do so? His life was analyzing her frowns and trying to control the drivel that came from his lips in some semblance of order.

Bastila would pat his head after she’d decided she’d had enough playing nurse, _stop_. A confusing gesture. Borderline painful depending on where her hand went exactly on his skull. Turn back to the mission already. She was so results driven. “Let’s get this thing working.”

Then she would order him about like the harsh taskmaster she was, and Revan would obey, and they pretended this was all very normal. 

Maybe it was.

But it could come tumbling down. All it would take was one ship wandering a little too far off course. Or perhaps a rescue mission. Maybe that ship would be a mercenary he could quickly bribe/murder (and he could already hear her sneer ‘dealing with pirates now? how the might Sith have fallen’) and with the ship commandeered, the two of them could….could head anywhere. They could go as far as their fuel allowance let them. They could just run away to some tiny corner of the galaxy and watch the Republic and Empire tear each other apart. Give up using the Force and raise a crop of children on some backwater planet. Yes, for once Bastila would just along and listen to him and give up and leave her precious Republic. —alright. Nevermind.

They would find that ship, Bastila would insist on not murdering the crew onboard, and then she would steer them towards the Republic, making contact and letting them all know she had Revan with her, in a neurocollar and he was more open (then she would turn and give him a smile that had him sighing in agreement) to making peace. He would make a fine present to the Republic’s Senate and the Jedi Counsel. Paraded about like some prize, but Revan would not keep silent about the crimes the Jedi had committed and what they were still blind towards. He would also insist on keeping his bondmate at his side, and she would confess her own failings as they were inevitably dragged apart during their kiss. It would be fabulous theater.

Or they could be found by soldiers clad in silver-black armor and turned faceless, interchangeable. They would fall to their knees, and Revan would find a discreet way to remove his collar and fix what was left of his armor. And what would Bastila do? Just go along meekly, or murder every soldier onboard and commandeer that ship? ‘No, we’re going to the Republic and the Jedi Council!’ ‘No, we’re going back to my Empire and murdering Malak!’ It would be a fabulous farce.

But let’s say she did perform a heel turn in those worn boots, and agreed to come with him? Revan would be forced to keep that collar and use it on her. Until she agreed to finally become his apprentice. But, alas, it would be a trap to find some way to stop him. Oh, Bastila might even act submissive and pretend to be an evil henchman, maybe she would even stumble and doubt herself, but it would ultimate fall short. She would double-cross him at a vital moment. But he would let her go, because he’d become a sentimentalist, and he had, that much was true.

Take her back to the Empire, if only to introduce a new level to the games they played. Slaves and devices and silk and lace. Murder and vows, and poison kisses. See what was left of Malak’s face contort. He would keep his old apprentice alive, for a while anyway. ‘She’s only a hostage.’

Then, when they were inevitably caught at some game. ‘She’s just my paramour.’ And they would both pretend not to notice her indignity stare in return.

Finally, as he looked down at the glazed unblinking eyes of a man that had been so loyal, his oldest best friend that had survived so much but never quite brave or bold or smart enough (good enough) compared to Revan, and shrug. Obviously, there was no need of him now with Bastila. ‘I guess you should have worked harder at killing us.’

Revan remembered his gloves filled with his best friend’s blood, the awareness. From a previous wound to the side, not the one to his face; that wound had been cauterized. He had felt no regret, but had called the medics, had stood by Squint’s bed and watched the droids and doctors work. He would never fail to always meet Malak’s eyes, after.

Alek, when he’d been Alek, had loved him as a brother, a best friend, a Master. For a time, he had even been willing to bend his head and proudly call him Master. Envy and love and tolerance and acceptance, companions, friends, my brother. The contortion of his face after an evening with an admirer, clear adoration in those clear eyes, that wanted to hear everything, and alone, ‘She doesn’t know you’re not capable of that.’

There were moments when he would look up, and want to tell Bastila, yes, he was like that, I remember. There were time when Revan could even say, to the man Alek had been, that he was sorry.

He remembered his master’s pleased smile, the shade of her eyes that missed nothing. His earliest memory of her was of the heat of her pride. A child at her feet. Coddled and pushed but never ignored, the person to help him, always there just waiting. From the first, she had loved him like a son, like the child she had not chosen. She had…her previous students had all failed in some way, but he would be better. The pleasure at his first battle and victory, his first lightsaber, his promotions through the ranks so young, her open smile back at his devastating refutation of a Council member at some point. At his side, eventually, as an equal, a student, after she was exiled.

The Revanchist had never loved a person, Alek was right, but he had loved datapads and books of the library and the smell of rain. Before the war, discussing some obscure minutiae with Arren, her brief pause to pull a rambunctious blonde child from a library shelf. He and Alek on their backs one night years ago, pointing out the constellations and where they’d go and what they’d do when they grew up. Everything at peace and in its right place. He had loved the mask that had recreated himself. He had, yes, loved being a Jedi, being greater, fighting for what he believed in. Once he would have died for the Republic. He had been a True Believer.

Now he believed in a little less.

A little more… _mundane._

There was no longer that thing that waited in the darkness, hungry. Those things that scurried underfoot (Revan could not claim they were his anymore than they weren’t the exiled general) could be crushed. Swept aside were his Masters, great or petty, or Alek standing there with his handsome face a ruin, the Mandalore with his face exposed or all his old followers, fallen or death, ruined. When Revan turned around, he saw Bastila Shan waiting there for him. 

She had gotten under his skin; he had never slept so well as he did with her bony elbow digging into his side. She had seven freckles on her face, scattered and faint, and a further three on her right shoulder, two on her left forearm, three on her left hand below the knuckles. Callouses, softening, on both hands but rougher on the right. Those eyes were luminous, pale, not blue at all, but steel and fog, but they picked up the color of what was behind her and confused you. Her eyelashes were black. Her long thumbs and narrow hands. She had worn makeup, Revan had found it, to darken her eyelids and soften her mouth, and make her look a little older. When Shan was annoyed, that nose wrinkled and faint lines marked her forehead. She spent far too long working on her hair, auburn and brown, dull fire and rich earth. When Bastila smiled, there were little divots formed in her thin cheeks, she met your eyes as though to make sure of your intentions, and you might believe anything might be possible and could forgive her doubt.

Revan could almost remember that moment when they had met, and she had tied herself to him. Her breath against his. If he had faltered, she would have forced the air into his lungs. Bastila’s fury, and her patience and care. Her promises. I will take everything you made and uncreate it, tear it down, throw it into the red fires below—and you will help me.

She was much _more_ than he’d expected when he wondered a thousand years ago if it might be possible to capture that Bastila Shan. How to tempt her though, once she was captured? Perhaps Revan had even rubbed his chin and looked through a viewport or into a map. What to offer that headstrong, brash young Padawan. No, undoubtedly he had been gazing dramatically into a void, and plotted absently how to inveigle and persuade Shan.

Never, however, had the thought of offering his own body to entice her entered Revan’s mind.

I used to have things to offer you. He eyed her shoulders. Gifts and rewards, the open hand and then the fist.

Now he crept around her and teased her about her hair, and was undone when she smiled at him. Rather than armies, his droids, he plucked at wires and hoped to not be shocked.

But he was still Revan, and the Force might be with him, lingering and soft.

Bastila inspected his work, and that made him furious with her, enough to remember that she was just a Padawan and then she would turn on her heel to brush off his anger with a single hard stare. You want to fight, then we will. But neither ever won.

This is her fault. I don’t forget that. But I do forgive, and I do understand it.

And he would fix it, and not say a thing about her previous attempts. At least part of it. Somewhat. “All we can do is transmit a signal. For anyone to pick up.”

_Do you not want us to be found?_

That voice was not his own. That damned headache was coming back. “Just screaming for anyone to come get us because we’re entirely helpless.”

Bastila tucked away a cord. So neat. “That might do it.”

“Might?”

“What other option do we have?”

“I could go on staring at you, bent over like that?”

Oh could he?

“Revan!”

Yes, continue on, and on and on. A thousand times, whatever they could think of.

Even when he slept, his dreams tended to involve her. Dressed in robes or nothing at all. Either way, still nagging and demanding. Sometimes with Revan throughout the Mando war, in various ways. Wake up, halfway there and startle her. Tell her all about his dream, of her there in the war, with him, with him and Alek and the Exile, so much _fun_. Did she want to know what kind of fun they were having?

“What?” Her horror-struck gaze was so enthralling. Slow dawning but how it shone. “I despise you for that alone.”

Revan felt that mess of brown hair moving away from his chin. “You’d love the attention.”

“ _You_ would. Wait. What were you…no, don’t tell me. How could you even think something like that?”

Eventually, Revan moved onto worse topics. Told her of his masters, of being a small child, the schoolboy. His best friend. Fine, then, since she was so obviously eaten alive by curiosity, his first kiss and first time using a weapon in earnest and first actual sexual experience. The war? Do you want to hear about the war? His strange dreams and delusions. The chunks of time that still alluded him. What they had done to the ship was meaningless.

You want to know everything about me, huh.

Count the ribs. Look at my scars. The first man she had seen naked in passion. It wasn’t--! Oh, well, yes it was but…shut up.

_Yours._

Oh, but I don’t want it, send it back. She rolled over and covered her eyes. But it was far too late for that.

Learn everything about Revan. Go ahead. What else is there to do but explore the other? This scar is from the Mandalore. These tattoos when I was younger, and no, I can’t tell you what they signify, if I speak the words you’d lose your mind. Alek was always the taller one, and we met when I needed to reach a high shelf. Where did I gather my ships? Ah-ah, I have to keep some of my secrets. Pinch her indignant scrunched nose. 

He thought on those left behind. What a happy little snake nest on Malachor. The monsters there that made Korriban look pleasant and sane. She didn’t know.

She couldn’t know.

Not yet. Not ever.

The things he’d done in the shadows of that place. What it did to you. Not an excuse but an explanation. Things shifted. You lost your mind there. It was like the Star Forge, wasn’t it. And he recalled the Mandalore’s smile full of blood, “ _You and your Republic will be next_.”

Protect her from that.

She wouldn’t believe it, that he cared about her enough to hide things. Could already hear her. ‘You probably just didn’t want to hear another lecture!’ But he did. Whatever she said, just because it meant she was thinking and communicating with him. Could listen to another thousand speeches, if that meant some part of himself was lodged in her head.

So he could drop to his knees before her when she began to go on about the virtues of the Republic and the Order and democracy and justice. Fingers sliding into her belt, clinging there. “If that’s what you want me to do, I will.”

Listen to her squealing, and nearly kicking him away. “Stop that.”

“ _Make_ me.”

Then Bastila really did kick him in the chest. Though at least she would apologize for that one.

She left him coughing and pleased on his back. Then he struck to get his revenge and found himself laughing into her shoulder blades when she found a ticklish spot. ‘Some Sith you are.’ They might come close to rolling around, like the desperate, teenage Padawans neither had been, and it was all very serious until it became funny and then serious again. 

“Just be quiet!” Revan had tried grabbing her jaw and they wrestled and somehow, she was one nearly getting bitten.

“Get off me.”

“ _Make me_.”

“ _I_ am the Sith Lord here!”

It went the usual way after that. Spirited and desperate.

She had her own perverted side, for all the fuss she might make about how he acted and what he wanted. That time in the bathroom, facing the mirror. Such a narcissist, Revan would insist. He would want to unleash her mouth, wanting to _hear_ her as she squirmed and slid against the wall. Until she would threaten to recite the Seventy-Nine Acts of Discipline while he braced himself _almost_ against her, letting their breath mingle. “You remember them all?”

Eyes wild. “No. But I can try.”

Until they were both stumbling through them, sharing words and oxygen and carbon dioxide. The things Revan still remembered. Though he did forget all of his teaching for one moment, how to talk too for that matter, though Bastila could continue to babble, if only his name or commands or orders that he cease. 

Soon they would be dead, and that might be even comforting, or at least acceptable.

Strip pazaak in the meantime. When they ran out of clothing, traded territories of planets and systems.  “Take Taris.”

She adjusted his robe, pants and shirt in her lap, boots to the side. “Oh, _thanks_.”

Finally, one evening or morning, Revan would get her in a blindfold. “Pate.”

“Mm.”

“Nerf steak and eggs. Slightly burned around the edges, a little tender in the middle. Dark pink center in the steak. Falling off the bone.”

She was desperate.

“Orange potatoes. Swimming in butter. Fresh greens.”  Eyes all but rolling back in her head. She nearly choked as he handfed her a cracker. “Another?”

They licked crumbs off each other’s fingers.

Neither turned away from the other. It was too late.

Bastila claimed to be very knowledgeable about ( _everything_ ) his dark path and his secret ways. Still, he would not speak of certain weapons and of training just to annoy her. She _did_ know certain things about him, about Malak as well, but much was hearsay and supposition. Shoulders thrown back, eyes unafraid. “I know what you are, Revanchist.”

He would look back, innocent. “Your Bond-Mate?”

Her shudder was blood in the water.

And why should she not be his Bond-Mate, besides the obvious. He was the Revanchist and she was the Last Hope of The Republic. Fascination was natural. Attracted more to power than form, he was just gauche enough to admit that. Purr into her ear and enjoy her twitch, “Not that there’s anything wrong with your body. But I was initially attracted to your _Battle Meditation_.”

“Many were.”

“Yes. I remember the interviews and gossip.”

“Not about that!”

“Oh yes about that.”

“I meant! I meant…” She sighed. “I mean to say that my talents would garner attention.”

“The best since Sunrider.”

And Bastila smiled.

He wanted to kiss that spot beneath her ear, that one right there. “Not that there have been many with that power. A fluke from the Force.”

“The Force does not delve with ‘flukes.’ Or with luck.”

“We were fated to be together. How _romantic_. Like the Jedi of old. You remember all those dusty stories I’m sure.”

“Neither of us can compare to those Jedi, Revan,” Bastila chided.

“My Nomi. I would have liked to see you perform your little trick.”

“Didn’t you? The first time we ‘met’?” Skirmishes and entanglements across a scattered battlefield. Her increasingly the last line of defense for the shrinking Republic. Strong, but that wasn’t enough against such superior forces. A fun diversion though, until it wasn’t. 

“Yes, but I never got to _see_ you do it. I can only make wild assumptions of how you did it. Drank Sith blood and hard hallucinogenic alcohol, and sacrificed a youngling. Burnt effigies and nude acrobatics…”

“ _What_?”

“Or something along those lines. Mm. And all for me. I thought you inspired me to further crush all the Jedi. But I was wrong. I am _your_ muse.”

She fought him off. All his comments and suggestions, wasted and unreciprocated. No, she was fully sober when meditating, and surely he must have seen pictures and Jedi performing Battle Meditation. Stop it. Her stretches had been nothing but perfunctory. “You have no hope,” she would inform him, flat and eyes meeting his.

All to be undone when Revan smiled. “You’re blushing.”

Yet he was forced to fight her off. Literally peeling her fingers from around his wrist as her grip slipped only to be undone when she drove an elbow into his face and kicked his knee out from under him. Once, she had tackled him.

Everything was new. With her, everything was new. Blink and recreate the galaxy. It could have been theirs, all of it. Whatever they set their eyes too. With her, with him, they would have burned brighter. She the shield to his weapon and vice versa.

If only.

Now, if the Force was with them, they would not starve to death and the suicide would be quick and painless.

Anything else was a cruel joke that had to be inspected and hoped for.

If they were found and by the Republic who did not immediately try them both for war crimes, it would be funny to see the High Council’s reaction. ‘Oh, she definitely led me down the path of goodness.’ Then he would be muzzled.

Their favorite and beloved pupil, hope for the Republic, and him, their best and brightest failure and traitor. Maybe Revan would give up at subtlety and just stare at her throughout the trial, all desperate, just to make the chroniclers take note and there would be a tragic operatic written about them soon enough.

Bastila had a bad pazaak face too. She would plead for him to be spared and eyebrows and what-could-pass for eyebrows would shoot up. He would be half-open to all the suggestive thoughts they must be having, even those on the Council who insisted that no true Jedi could have such thoughts and thus any Jedi that might have a different opinion was no longer a Jedi. Their nubile, lovely and impressionable Padawan left alone with him for how many weeks?

It would be so apparent. The Bond and his intolerable smugness and her guilt. He would give her long desperate stares and whisper to her throughout the entire procedure, and take so much pleasure explaining how this had all happened, how and why, _how_?! A lovelorn sigh, ‘From the moment she tied me up.’ Leave her shamed and cringing. Then she would be stuck with him.

They would not dare exile and probably not murder him. Kept under lock and key if not Bastila, and hopefully away from the Republic senators that would gladly put his head on the wall right inside their senate atrium.

Revan would go along with it, under a few conditions. ‘Can she be my keeper then?’

But they might be separated. Him apart from the only person he had cared for in the longest time. Since his friends had slowly been wiped away by his own hands or the Mandos, replaced by a growing circle of corpses around him until there was only he and Malak. Then his best friend had successfully turned against him when his back was turned.

Finally, Revan had someone near to be trusted and Bastila expected him to blindly go along with being a Jedi again, even if it ripped them apart? How could she stand it?

When, together, they would glow.

Finally, the Council found a way to punish Revan the Butcher. 

Oh, he was a pathetic creature. Broken now. Rebuilt. As her pawn, so suckered by that voice and that auburn-brown hair, informing him that he was over the allotted time and she would see him six months for now if the death sentence was stayed by the judge who had ordered him muzzled. "The others wouldn't know or understand what we feel and have experienced," he reminded her.

"There's a reason for that."

"The Jedi masters that presume to judge us?” He sneered. “We could have been chaste and they would still be suspicious of us when we returned. They would have doubted you Bastila. How can someone that had never experienced what we have told us what to do? They aren't even here. It's a moot point."

"I wish they were." She spoke towards her palms.

"It would be a good argument for cannibalism."

She still wasn’t looking at him.

“Bastila. I wouldn’t let us be separated. Do you understand?” He took her wrist, and saw her expression of dread. “Better to be exiled, and be _honest_.”

“I want to be a Jedi,” she whispered.

He saw her. Her youth and skill and inexperience and the direction, trajectory of her life, the chance this mission had given her, and what Revan was, what he could be to her. He could have been only a man, a prisoner, to turn into the Council and please them. He could have been her Knighthood and assigned Padawan and journey to becoming a Master, to joining the Council. 

Revan saw Malak, standing there, tall, one of the strongest human men Revan had ever met, one of the toughest. What had he been angry over? A stupid interview where the woman had chosen to speak to Revan over Alek, a trifle about splitting an order, a refusal to attend some event, another dismissal, the usual back-and-forth between them for control? I chose _you,_ Master, over the Council. His face so long and pale, eyes filling with the tears he was too old for and knew it. ‘Does my loyalty count for nothing?’ You are all I have left. How must he have felt, waking up in bandages with half his face gone? This is all I have left.

“There are alternatives,” he assured her.

“I am a Jedi, Revan.”

“For now.”

 “Do you understand? I need the guidance of the Council—“

“I will guide you.”

“—of the _Order._ Don’t you see?”

I am not like you.

He wanted to pry her loose, pull back her fingers, make her understand. Overpower and push her, slip between her defenses and her thighs.

(Bastila was curious, and _wanted_ , she wanted to stop him and change him and be better than him, and to see what he could offer her and to know all the things she could do to him. The distant, paternal air the Jedi had attempted to foster had not been tempered enough and her sense of superiority _wanted_ to slip. He was the Revanchist, and she was just a Padawan, and now they were equals were they not, and not just Sith and Jedi)

Revan could practically taste it and all the squirming thoughts in her head.

Be careful, oh, be so careful. It was the voice of his Master, and he still obeyed her in this.

I’m not that man anymore. I can’t be. I won’t hurt her. I will try not to hurt her. “Bastila? Bas?”

Tell me about yourself.

She had been a pouty child, an annoyance in dirty clothes from running around outside, and quick to realize the betrayal of her parents. A sense of being the third wheel, always, and then left, abandoned to a strange place with strange rules, and without her father. Her home planet had been rainy. That much he was told about her past. The sea, heathers and foam, thick grass and the way the fog rolled in on mornings to be burned away by the pale suns.  

He closed his eyes. “When did you is discover you were Force sensitive?”

“As a young girl, before I had turned six.  I was not so young, compared to many of the other apprentices there. The Jedi came to our world. They found me.”

What did they find?  Pig-tails and pouting. Did you come out with that accent and that frown, or did you learn it from the Jedi? You were on Dantooine, I was on Coruscant. You were too young; after the attack on Dantooine, after Taris, they grew more paranoid.

“I was _terrible._ My mother was glad to be rid of me, I know it. Do you remember your parents?”

“I have always been a Jedi.” There had seemingly always been his Master there. She claimed she had been waiting for him, waiting for him so long. “When did you learn you had a gift with Battle Meditation?”

“I wanted to be like Sunrider,” she whispered.

“We all did.”

She had rushed ahead to capture the great Revanchist, retrieve if not defeat him, and turn him over to the Order in some way. A good little pup with a grimy toy in her mouth, eager for any sign of affection and approval. They had kept them from her, her Masters, her parents, and no wonder she shied from his touch. It was more than the over-familiarity from him, the hated traitor, Revan the Turncoat, the Emperor of the Sith; such actions were _unfamiliar_.

“That is not a failing Padawan. We are wanted to be great.”

I would have been no better to you, Shan, but you would have burned so bright before you crashed like the others, or were twisted unrecognizably.

And he almost remembered, he almost remembered what he'd seen in that dark place.

And she would almost forget what he was, didn't she, as she asked about his early years and when he'd made his own lightsaber and when had he been rewarded the title of Knight? When they went to war? The fear in his old friend’s yellow, clever eyes as the Cathar argued that enough was enough, how many more dead Mandalorians before this war could end, please, Revan, Alek, listen to reason, listen to sanity, listen to the Republic.

‘All of them. I will not rest until all of them are crushed beneath my heel.’ Him cold with anger and disgust, but not because a Cather wanted this to end-- your own people have been killed, and enslaved, your _own blood_ —but that someone would still remain so blind. There was too much at stake to stop. Too many things put into place and could not be stopped. A sense of finality and inevitability had taken over, and Revan could not stop it if he wanted. ‘Besides, it is a little too late to stop.’

 A rock perched at the top of a ledge and left tottering. Which way will it fall? Forward or backward? Who will it crush, the man that pushed it, or those below and beyond the ledge? It is too late to stop.

Bastila did _trust_ him, to some extent. They did, after all, share a bed. That they both slept in, and with neither tied up. Knew certain things that only a lover would. Little idiosyncrasies.

Like, of her sleeping habits, what he learned weren’t night terrors; she just _fought_ in her sleep. Rolling over onto him, pushing, shoving and kicking him off the bed. All while talking, mumbling nonsense. Never shutting up, even as Revan pushed her towards the wall to make space for himself, which resulted in her nailing him a good one in the head or much lower and no way was that an accident. Sometimes his exaggerated cries of pain would wake her, and she might even apologize and move over, or just mumble that he deserved whatever had happened and then go back to sleep.

Leave him standing there, enraged or frustrated or laughing.

That she was ticklish, that she squirmed and folded up at the slightest hint of being touched on her stomach, and hated being so vulnerable. She trusted him, or lapsed into apathy. She counted the days they had spent, and the days they had left to go. When he sang operettas, Bastila curled into a ball and covered her ears and would not sing soprano. “I'll sing a dream-song to you _. Painting_ a picture for twwwoooo.”

Until one morning when he could pull a little bit at the collar, at how the strength was adjusted. Just a little. A snippet of wire, a thing that could be found with any mechanical repair kit. Ten uninterrupted minutes. That was all he needed.

What a fool he was. What a fool she was.

It was a moment to be savored. Recycled air on his throat. I am Darth Revan, Lord of the Sith, Emperor of the Galaxy, Destroyer of the Mandalorians. 

The metal was warm in his hands, and Revan wanted to snap it around Bastila’s own throat for a second. See how she liked it, because oh, _Revan_ would. So many things he would do and teach her when she felt what it was like with that constant fuzz in one’s head and the easy reach of the Force slipping away. See the width of her eyes and her desperation.

Until the sudden appeal of what they might accomplish through their Bond was remembered.

That Bond, that thought, might be what woke Bastila. She sat right up, eyes all wide. “Revan?”

“Yes.”

“What’s wrong?”

As though she expected him to always lie in that bed, to wake only when she had need of him. Such arrogance. Bastila was getting up, hurried, finding clothes that were never laid neatly. Revan watched, patiently, trying not to draw attention to his neck or the thing in his hands. It was easy to be distracted by her putting those boots on.

Then she noticed the lack of restraints.

Oh.

Oh no.

He could read every thought in that head.  

The fear and blame and anger at herself for having let her guard down so much. What a fool she was. Now, now he would strike and teach her the full meaning of the word ‘regret.’ He could grab her arm right there and wretch it behind her, break it in two places and leave her to fall to her knees, scrambling to find the weapon she had stolen from him.

Revan only began playing with the neural collar, and tried not to grin at her too widely.

With or without the collar, she must have enough faith in him to believe he wouldn’t strangle her. She _must._ There was no need for all of this. All alarmed, like a cornered Kath hound. Both of their gazes fell to where she’d stored his lightsaber. 

Was he such a monster? Yes, but she didn’t know to what extent. And for a supposed fiend that enjoyed bathing in the blood of innocents or not, Revan didn’t kill everyone he met and cared for. Malak, well, yes, be had been mauled and there was Kae, and his previous general. But, presumably, they weren’t all dead. Yet.

“Revan.”

There was that anger in her, so quickly did her emotions shift, and she really was less than the perfect Jedi. Some part of her knew it, and only clung the tighter to that self-control to keep the doubt away. Bastila, even now, would fight. Just as he’d recommended to her, so long ago, in some attempt at easing her guilt.

For that, and the hand-to-hand combat, Revan would get beaten, threatened, and put back in restraints.

This, this was the true test and neither were prone to failing such things.

“I should put this on you, Jedi. I could have, while you slept unaware. But I didn’t. You think I’m going to hurt you?” He hissed, hating this voice, this tone. “I should. Gods know you deserve it. But nothing I could do would make this situation even worse for you. No. I’m going to forgive you, Shan. I am your caring, loving partner after all. It wouldn’t do to hurt you.”

She didn’t blink.

The ground shifted, twisted and upended him. No. Please. He had the Force, he was an unbeatable warrior, the most powerful and brilliant Jedi of his generation, restorer of the Sith, he was whole again; he would not beg Bastila Shan to like him. “You asked if I trusted you. Do you trust me?”

“Sometimes.” She was biting her lip, almost edging away. No matter what he did, there would always be this space between them it seemed. His sincerity would always be questioned, and if he did toss away his mantle of Sith Lord, Bastila would still inspect every word he said for signs of the dark side. Even with their Bond, she was still so separated from him.

Revan knew he loved her, as best he was capable of, but no, it wasn’t enough, still wasn’t enough. A piercing hurt from that. No matter what he did, Bastila would pull some part of her back and away from him.

As though still afraid of being corruption.

“You could be even greater, if you allowed it, Bastila.”

If she did give in, what could be bestow on her? Should they get out and have that life of gray-eyed babies and long peace of backwater planets—should he just drop here and promise to repent—be a good man, a good little Jedi, and duck his head and swallow his pride no matter how it burned.

That would be so boring, though, a domestic life. She would get sick of it before him.

“I am not a Sith, Revan.”

“What if you embraced both? Neither Sith nor Jedi?”

“And what is that? I am a Jedi.” Shan clung to that, as though believing that were all she had. If that was her raft, did that mean he was a flashflood?  

But Bastila, you have me.

“I should have put this on you.”

Something flickering across her face, and Revan lowered the neural restraint. I should have. I could have. One I would have, and only taken it off to make you perform your trick for me. But who was there now to fight? Each other. Just each other. But he could have done it—overpowered her and forced it onto her while she fought and twisted, hissing his name, back to where they'd started when he'd been nothing but anger and she fear.   

Instead he dropped the collar onto the table and pulled a Nutribars towards him through the Force. Such a simple trick. “I’ll give you this, if you listen to me.”

Bastila was already huffing and turning away.

“Do you think the Jedi care? They teach themselves not to. Or perhaps the Force watches out for you. Or that the Republic will arrive? You are only another cog in those machines. Only as long as you can serve them will they notice your existence.”

It was time for her to make her decision.

“You can stand up though, and make everyone care. Force them to recognize you and all you can do. You deserve so much more, don’t you. Doesn’t that appeal to your pride, all you’ve done?”

Once you broke a person, they would be useless unless you gathered their parts and put them back together again. He could see them all scattered about, her parents, the talents that had resulted in her captivity and given her a unceasing goal, the lessons and every book and phrase mesmerized, her Master, her youth, her doubts, her fears.

“Do you want to die in this tincan?”

“What about you? You only care about me, because you think I’ll become your apprentice!”

His eyes never left her. Revan broke the bar in half, and offered a piece to her. “But I care for you. I want you as the Jedi never have and never will. _All_ of you. The anger and passion, your loyalty, your gift. That pride. You know that, deep down.”

Light or dark, the _morality_ of it all, didn’t matter. Revan would die here. He had seen it through the Force that his life would be terminated soon enough. Reached out through the Force, opened himself to it to be met with a _yes_. He saw no vision of it, but only that confirmation. He had seen and done enough for more than one lifetime, he supposed.

There were so many ways he could go, still. Not in ways as inventive if he’d been on say, Korriban, but still. Starvation, thirst, a sharpened edge of metal, the blaster? Lightsaber wounds perhaps, but whose hand was on the handle?

“No. Revan. _No._ ” She would not take the offering, or move her gaze from the collar in his grasp.

Revan held it up. It weighed little. “All it took was a moment of distraction, Shan. You are still too young.”

Another Padawan would have lowered their head and began looking for her weapon. “I am not a child!”

He could bend her backwards. Shatter all the bones of her body and make her beg for death. Bastila had never faced a Sith Lord in honest combat. He was the Revanchist, and had defeated warriors so much better than her. She needed to remember that.

“Oh, but you are.” The Sith Lord stalked around her. “You are still a Padawan, not even a Knight. And one day, you’ll call me Master. I will become the finest teacher you’ll ever have.”

He bared his fangs at her pale, slightly alarmed face. “You will castigate yourself at my feet and declare yourself to be mine, entirely mine in every single way. _Apprentice_.”

“ _Never_.”

“I see it. Through the Force.”

“Through your imagination.”

“With my unique insights into the Force I can parse the fog and see what awaits you in the future.”

“With delusion you can make wild assumptions on my attraction for you based on nothing!” Her weight was uneven, and she struggled to find her footing, unsure to fight or flee. If Bastila did survive this, Revan hoped she would focus more on physical combat. The Echani would be appalled at how she held herself back. Too often she came in, and unnecessarily when it would be better to hang back and let the other blunder in. The time when Jedi restraint might actually come in handy. ‘Let them walk into you,’ he would advise, ‘Since obviously your offense needs work.’ Which sent her further down a spiral of anger and resentment and hurt pride, and overall dismay for feeling any of that. “I’ll never join you Revan.”

If he was to be her Master, then she needed to be taught humility. No, she needed to be showered with praise. She needed to be stripped of the Force and of her clothing. Given command of an entire fleet and then the Order. I’ll give her a child and leave them both on Korriban. They would raise their pack of children on Kashyyyk amongst the taks and trees.

He went to bended knee, and held the collar out. If I let you put this back on me, would that change your mind? Revan looked up at her, offering. Did she see? Did she realize?

She measured the distance, studied the length between them and where the weapon was hidden away. She dismissed it all. “No. It doesn’t matter now. You would just remove it again.”

Bastila turned away.

We are done with such things.

Perhaps it was a step forward. She sat on the bed and watched him, eyes dark at his every move. A Sith Lord returned to his power. Now Revan could beg all the longer for her attention, without sleep or food.

He held out a nutribar brought forth to him so easily. She shook it off as well, finding his use of the Force obscene. Revan ate it alone, spiteful, crumbs sticking to the top of his mouth and back of his throat. Dry and overly sweet from the synthetic honey. When he finished swallowing, he realized he wasn’t hungry after all.

He could pin her to the seat. He could force her to do any number of things. He was stronger than her now, physically, and remind her that she was unarmed. He could teach her what so many Jedi had learned at his hands. He did not do any of this.

Yet what was his reward for such kindness? Even in affection, Bastila dodged awkwardly.

He would hold her, feel every breath and the way she pushed against him as she inhaled. And feel so grateful, lucky, wanting to tug her hair and expose her neck. Until she moved away, stop, this is difficult enough. She hung back, arguing with herself each direction. Some part of her was naturally wary of attachment, and perhaps would have been even if she weren’t a Jedi. Something with her parents? Her own personality and strange neurotic tics. Solemn, in how she looked up and waited to see what he would do next.

Bastila lied there, the wounded animal. Like any egomaniac, she felt that her pain made up the galaxy. It had swallowed her up, and left a reluctant limping thing that wanted to be put out of her misery. He would sneer at Bastila’s distress. ‘What do you know of discomfort? How much suffering have you experienced, Padawan?’ If he’d been able to care less for the Jedi, Revan would have snapped her neck and ended her suffering.

But then who would he talk (annoy, she insisted, annoy and harass) to?

Besides, the Sith was smitten and ruined enough to cajole her to return to their bed. Or at least to respond to him. Bastila didn’t fight, even playfully, and now seemed resigned to his affections. Hands rising and falling around his shoulders while he stood or balanced above her. That hurt more than her bites and rejections. He would snap the air around her, and watch those pale eyes roll up to simply look at him.  

I would hold you by the throat, and then let you go.

Shan wasn't even impressed by his restraint. His little Jedi pouted and navel gazed. But she would not cry in front of him. Bastila Shan did not cry at all. Not _this_ young, so-talented Jedi that the Republic depended on. Even alone and behind a locked door, Shan would not be so weak.

Perhaps due to that Battle Meditation, she could overly feel. Feel _everything_.  The Jedi control had slipped, and she no longer bent down to pick it up. All that responsibility. She had done everything right, had even spared the Dark Lord of the Sith, and here was her reward.

She was making a worse shipmate than he would have thought.

But still not as bad as his last one.

Malak had no secrets, Revan had thought. Every thought and gesture Alek had Revan could read before they were pondered or performed. Even his betrayal wasn’t such a surprise, if not for the exact timing. The worn patterns of his thought process and decisions, the recklessness of his nature, restless and restless, eager and resentful. He had been such a decent-enough boy, he had tried so hard as Revan never had needed.

What of his new friend?

Alek, shaking his head. ‘It’s amazing, the things you consume for the sake of your ego.’

‘Yes, I am amazing.’

And to be taken, to be beaten by Malak, but Bastila Shan…and in victory, what did she do? At least his old friend was gloating.

“Get up.” He held himself in tense fury.

“What do you want?” How dare she hardly incline her head to notice him.

I want. Oh, I am still capable of want.

“You.”

She twitched, curled, move away. “If you do…if you really do care for me, you will accept that I am a Jedi.”

“Jedi or not. I would have you.”

She was not a fearful woman; Bastila had not hesitated, had not balked when facing him. He did not take pride in that sudden sheen that overtook the black of her pupils. Those grey eyes ate up her face. Yet, and yet, she stretched out for him.

Her hand on the back of his head. Tilt his head back to see her face and formally asking him with all due ceremony, “If it meant we were together, would you become a Jedi again? Would you agree to return so long as we might be together in some way? Revan, would you accompany me back to the Order?”

“Revan?” Her hands slipped to the front, touching his face. “Even to the Council? Would you follow me even to them?”

It might be worth it, just to see the expression on Vrook’s face.

“Revan?”

“I’d follow you _anywhere_.”

He would. For his young Padawan, treasure and love, so embarrassed but willing. Loyal. All for him, as he was for her as Revan reminded her a million times. Willing to learn and just filthy, even later, as he told her through the door she was bathing in the sonic shower. Shut up, just be quiet, oh you are horrible, stop it, no I would never do that. “Are you going to just stand there, monologing?” The brunette had all but yelled.

‘What, would you prefer me to jump in?’ She really would look quite fetching in the shower, all soapy and moist. Especially smugly confident. He would rush in, slip and crack his head open again and drown in his own blood, gladly, for that sight. There were worse ways to die.

“Of course not,” Bastila assured him.

And Revan could nearly feel the steam. _“Really_?”

Why not oh why not?

“A million reasons.”

“And those are?”

She thought for a long moment, and he leaned in, a little closer to the door. “I don’t even think you’d know what to do if I said yes.”

“Is that a challenge?” Everything was a challenge. Sharing a bed and that moment when they awoke together, and one of them might stretch out and stay hovered the other. The way her eyes flickered when his tongue would slip out to taste his tea and trace the lip of the mug. Drunk and blushing, shy and abashed and picturing him as a young, handsome Jedi Knight and blaming Revan for finding him so attractive and falling asleep drooling on his shoulder, so young and touchingly sweet. Her hands on him, the look of concentration that narrowed those eyes as she ran that rag over his face. 

“Because you should know I have never once shied away from a challenge in my entire life. Nor have I failed a single test. Surely, you must be aware of this. Or is that while you made that remark? Because you want me to open this door right now, and join you.”

She scoffed. “You would like that, wouldn’t you?”

Her bravado at the moment when she'd given in had been all the more touching, including the enthusiasm to make up for lack of experience. Be terrible for a moment and savor the moment, the sight, and knew immediately not to say it, but unable to help himself, “Then you could use that mouth for something useful for once.”

Bastila all but snarled, and Revan knew, she would have bitten down, and that would be deserved.

And he’d thought he wasn’t a masochist.

“I’ll never do that, Revan! And I’ll never want you either.” How cold the steel was on his heated skin. He could wait here, face pressed to the door, all day. Revan threatened to do so, until she came out, still angry but with armored. A Jedi, for now, he could make peace with that, especially when that Jedi fell asleep, a damp spill of auburn hair tickling his cheek.

She called him a paranoid cynic, and Revan would agree, he had a madness in him, still: hope.

He made deals and wheedled the Force for some sign.

We will meet again. You will wear something slinky and I my finest armor, or vice versa, and the restaurant will be left in ruins by the time we’re done with it. At the Academy, with Vrook there and Kae too, for once they will agree when it comes to pulling us away from each other. We will see each other on the battlefield. You will agree to my deal and become my apprentice, and we will find a way out of this so I can watch you face Malak. I will give up, everything and all but you, and then the Republic will come and they will not pry us apart, they will not. I will be a Jedi, and you will forget yourself. Someplace, sometime, there will be a future for us, and I’ll charm you, make you smile, and then—then you will proceed to stab me.

We will meet again.

He touched her hair as she dreamed, and smoothed her forehead when it became furrowed from another nightmare.

It was not all bad.

He had freed and helped the Cathar. He had stopped the Mandalorians.

More than that, less than that: art. He had taught Alek of that. Once mentioning certain churlish things that they were both better than, and yes—for a smile and a laugh and squirm. The museums where they had rubbed shoulders with the thoughtless elites. Long afternoons wandering parks and finding each other amongst the pillars. Alek leaning back and rubbing his chin, making a show of his confusion at the sketches of architecture. He had been such a handsome man, blue-eyed and tall. “I don’t see it…”

“…it was the flower paintings, Alak.”

Kae’s laugh. Her pride and joy. She had taught him everything. It had been said that she had taken a special interest and would have raised him all but from birth if she’d been allowed. Did you choose me rather than your own blood child? And what of his gifts in return for the hours spent at her side, her hand on his as they traced the shapes on the screen, the pride on her face as she told him of the Force, the ease as she read to him. The body and blame he cast at her feet (you love him so much? Even now?) for her betrayal—or maybe it had been his own.

You don't control me. I am more than your apprentice. I didn’t—I didn't mean it. I didn't mean to hurt you so. You were gone by then (but not dead) and I had to, I needed to get rid of him, I never…I never fully appreciated what you did, what you must have felt and gone through.

But did you love him? Did you hold him and wonder. Were you confused? You loved him and he you, despite everything. Did you regret that, how did you even _begin_? How had it ended? How does one learn _this?_

Revan had not known. All he had done and not understood. The lectures and speeches and control, all meaningless even as he mouthed the Code. “There is no death...”

But now, he could understand, and abandon it. The way she smiled, the thin eyebrows and gray in her eyes. “There is only the Force.”

Everything stained as one traveled further along the timeline. This Mobius strip.

Revan thought of his plain desk, his medium bed that had not been shared, the cup of caffe always there when he wanted it. He remembered the grain of the table and the drawers so silent as they opened and the flimsi inside. Sheets hardly made and redolent of last night’s sweat. He had not taken a lover in (years, months) some time. The cup carefully inspected. Strong bitter and dark; he had made some joke about that forever ago.

Her head dug into his chin painfully.

What I could do with you, Padawan. The things I could do to you.

These foolish Jedi. They wanted to know how I got my ships? All they had was to look at his flag. They wanted to know his plan. Look at the past. His smile had come easy as he looked up and up, to this technology the galaxy had forgotten, this solution to so many problems if one was strong enough to handle it, clever enough to guide it, and Revan had always been gifted with machinery. He fell asleep with the memory of sun and wonderment warming his face.

He awoke standing before the yolk of the ship, with no memory of how he’d gotten there. This was not Dantooine or Manaan or Korriban. Who is that woman there? He was in a dark corridor, and the door were closing behind him and the windows were long boarded up. It will get worse. Even as awareness came back to him, sleep did not. The woman next to him awoke, and he remembered her name. He can remembered the _easy_ flick of his lightsaber—Malak still too slow—and the horror of what he’d done had hit him, oh _Alek_ , your _face_. He can remember his names.

Do you recall the walls of that place? Your pleads to an undead god, what had never been alive and only came disguised as a man. The stretch of his limbs and senses as he was inspected, what a funny little man you are! His language hurt Revan’s ears. Blood dripping into his eyes, and that was mercy, to not have to see it. 

I left. I tricked you!

But what if you didn’t escape. But what if you are still there? But what if. What if.                   

He remained awake for a long time.

The tea tasted sour. He remained cold despite the robes. Sometimes, he swore, he still lost hours. She was Bastila Shan and he preferred to be called Revan. Revan had once told Bastila that she searched for answers when the questions were what mattered, that she sought the foundation of his personality, that she was wrong to seek questions of what the war had done to him. Revan had not been changed, had never changed—as though Revan’s core had ever been truly altered.

But wasn’t that its own hell, a purgatory of never changing, always proceeding forward and never truly varying, growing. You are defined by what you fight. Trade your amethyst crystal for a red one, and think what a stand you are making, what a point. Hand around his throat, laughter as Revan kicked, _‘Yes, I am the_ Sith _you seek.’_ The room had smelled like blood and cooked meat and antiseptic yet Malak had not cringed from him, and Revan had remembered how much he respected this old friend and new enemy. Metamorphosis.

No, never, I am nothing but this right now, the outside is the inside.

Revan, the gifted Padawan, when his name had been something else. Revan, the Jedi Knight. Revanchist. Revan, the Supreme Commander of the Republic Navy. Shells and masks. Ships and planets. But there was someone there. Revan would storm through the hallways and open every door, searching. In his dreams, he sought out a man, what was definitely a man. What do you find?

Find a figure seated there, on the throne, in black and red, in Mandalorian armor before a thousand screens and seeing the damage and spread. You did all this. His face hidden as he looked out of over a sea of black and green fire, stunned, yes, Revan had not known his general was capable of actually doing it. You did this? Revan the Butcher standing besides the reporting lieutenant, seeing a world no longer lush but ablaze, the Force Users crying out and then _stopping_ , all that had been lost now, Malak what have you done. You did this. A cringing face, smoke with that _smell_ , his friend no longer able to scream, the noises he had been making had been nothing human. I did this.

He no longer tried to remember the cliffs and crags of valleys, dark or pale as dust. Those had been secret places. Had he been there? Had that been him? Revan could not recall. He could not see himself doing such things while his Master watched with disapproval that had so displeased him in turn.

Revan could see…

At a desk, tilting back in his chair, pazaak cards spilling from his pockets. _Liar._ In close-cut Corellian style pants and a jacket that filled him with something close to anger, I _never_ wore anything like that. _Fake._ In in Jedi robes before a spread of tools, a man too old to be deciding on the color of his blade like as any newly named Padawan might. _Sham_. Revan would find him, and pull the man up by the shoulders and look into that face. What are you doing here-- _I_ am Revan. Who are you?

_I am me._ Himself, not-Himself, smiling irreverently, his eyes brown and voice wrong. Too late Revan would see the lightsaber held in his right hand. The blade was emerald and there was no defense against it as this Jedi lifted it to bring down on the Revanchist, the only made who could stop what was to come from the edges of the galaxy, hearing the hum, hearing the reply, _Who are you?_

Then only light.

Only light.

It wasn't me. That wasn't me. I will not be bested by another Jedi.

He could take that weapon and end all this right now. Take her with him. The finest Sith and the best the Jedi had gone in one stroke. But he would never get up and take it in hand. The familiar weight would be heavy and the hilt would match his calloused hands and worn palm. The light that came from it would not be the green of grass and leaves. What did life have to do with Revan anymore?   

Bastila came awake. “What are you plotting?” An old joke, careworn and bitter.

“You still think I’m a monster,” he muttered.

“You still think you aren’t one?”

“That’s not fair. I did do good things. Freed the Cathers. Saved the Republic from the Mandalorians.” He sounded peevish.

She rubbed her eyes. “Betrayed the Republic. Turned your friend to the dark side. Sent your Master to die. Anyone who gets close to you--”

“I am not to blame for everything.” Who was left? Who had touched into his inner circle, and escaped alive? “Not everyone. Not _everyone_ necessarily. The Exile still lives. I will not believe my Master dead until I see her body. The generals that followed me still live. Even the ones that disobeyed me…some still live. He might have died at my hand, but I did send the Echani, Yusanis, a gift. Though I don’t think he’ll ever thank me for the reminder of what he lost.”

His Master presence had been between them through that duel. The rest, that dead Senator killed by HK, the offer of battle to the Echani that had been eager for the fight that had been a pretext; it had been Arren Kae they fought for. She was a Jedi. You sent her to die. You shamed her. You exiled her. She had a child with me. I was her child. You took her away. Why did she not return to me.

Because neither was enough.

He would wake curled, awake and chilly besides the captain’s chair.

He told Malak to continue the bombardment. He ordered his general forward. He saw the green fires ignite, and was pleased. He felt the rising, crushing sensation of despair and the promise of loss, and heard the name _Shan_ hissed. The meat behind his eyes had gone traitorous.

She came behind him. “Revan. Sleep.”

“I won’t. Who are you to tell me what to do?”

“Is this what you want,” Bastila hissed. Alive and bright as her blade. A good little Sentinel, she had chosen yellow for the color of the crystal. Revan had no doubt she’d had little trouble applying pressure to form that crystal. “To fight me?”

“No. I want.” Revan groped and paused.  “I want the truth from you.”

“I have never lied to you,” she protested hotly.

“You can pretend to have no emotions, but we know that’s another lie.”

Let the Jedi have what was left of their absurd Republic. Malak could have the Empire; it would not last long. He wanted to whisper into her hair, ‘They will all be dead as we are, soon enough. He is coming.’ But he did not.

“You are afraid, Shan. Still so afraid, even as slide towards death. A Jedi shouldn’t be so cowardly.”

“You were too weak to restrain yourself! What you did was no great act. Anyone can fall to the dark side.”

“But not you, oh, never you. Never the Last Hope of the Republic. When you betray the Republic, they will not see if coming, anymore than I saw your betrayal.”

She was his pupil, and would strike when his back was turned. She would try to kill him like the rest. Revan would stop her this time. He would not be the same fool. Bastila had wrapped herself around him through the Force and this power had forged their Bond, but that would not save her.

He reached behind to try and find her hand.

And it didn’t matter when she flinched back and tried to pull her clenched fist away. Bastila could not hide from him. Revan could smother her and overwhelm her senses. And when she fought back—

They reached through the Bond for the other.

Bared. Completely and utterly. Neither could establish nor find a wall that would hold up and separate them. You saw and felt as the other did. There was no privacy at that moment. All the other connections he’d experienced hadn’t felt like this. It crippled them.

Resentment and anger, disgust at him and herself, the self-doubt and deeply seated fear and all the emotions she kept so tightly in check. She despised and lusted and adored and feared and hated him.

Rage and bitterness, a lack of respect, the disdain and violence he wanted to inflict upon, and the waves of madness, of regret, he’d retreated from. He hated and lusted and feared and adored and loved her. 

I want I don’t want this I want you oh out _out_.

They wanted to murder each other. No logic or sense in it, just to slap away the other. The person that had dared look in and spied upon you. It would have been kinder if they truly had fought to the death here, or on his flagship. No one could stand themselves so exposed in such a way. Yet neither could look away. Too much had happened. All of their thoughts and emotions still jumbled and hard to tell what felt what. We are Bonded. It had to be relearned.

Somehow, they ended up on the ground. They. Shudder and find some privacy left, remove yourself. The physical contact helped to distract them. This is her shoulder and this was his hand. Them.

Her and him. Him and her. 

Seen, and neither looked away. What they knew, what they had known. 

Her head rested perilously close to his shoulder. Neither had wanted this, each other, but here it was. Here they were. Her thoughts were hidden by gossamer. _I wish I could leave. I wish I was alone, that he wasn’t here, that we had been found, please, I don’t want this._  

“I know.”

Curiosity, Revan had once read, was one of the masks of love.

It was a mockery of what they had felt before. But it helped. It was the closest thing to that peek, that utter oblivion into one another. There was sound. Even through the _Force_. Shattering, and so terrible a parody of what he’d felt before. Lovely. Feel and _know_ her. How long had she been doing that, unbeknownst to him?

Had they just made their Bond stronger?

What they could have: this. Only this, and that truth hurt more than anything.

See. _See_?

They drowned.

His head hanging down. “I can...do you feel this?”

“Yes. Please.” Eyes bloodshot. “We should have proper Jedi attachment.”

“I was good at that.”

“This is new though.”

“Yes.”

Like that. For the longest time. There was no time in this place.

She cradled him. “Perhaps it was a neurological defect.”

He was weak and undone and no Jedi. No Sith. “Maybe this is.”

“You did hit your head rather hard.”

It changed the chemistry of his brain. The contact and pheromones and skin cells and lack of nutrition. This. Her right here with that soft snore she would never believe she had. Tangled bronze and russet hair he would help sort out when she awoke. You are strong. The blue-gray of her eyes that made Revan understand the comparisons made to the ridiculous, of precious stones and skies and bodies of water and such stupid comparisons of course fell so short. Her mouth he could die kissing, gladly. Worship at the alter of her. I am weak. Preach of pale skin he spent hours exploring, so happy to look across her body, where did you get this scar, the swell of her breasts that he would cup in his sleep which Bastila found irritating and would never believe he did unintentionally, her smell and taste, her face that confused passions and made him unsure of whether she was angry or aroused. I know you. Changed them so they needed not to say anything aloud. Speaking the words aloud would have ruined it.

_If we are found by the Sith?_

_Keep you captive. Nicer than this. But you’d be mine. I think you’d find you could live with that._

_Can you?_

_I’ve done far worse to so many others._

_To me though? You’d hurt me?_

_I wouldn’t._

_You would keep me your captive!_

_As you did to me. But I would be more frequent with the sponge baths. It doesn’t matter. It doesn’t. I am dying._

Her face was _hilarious_. Tears nearly working their way to her eyes, and Bastila was the last person to ever show such weakness. _I only meant to capture you temporarily. I never meant for this to happen, Revan, none of it._

Bastila could not lie to him through the Force so she spoke aloud. “You’re not dying.”

He loved her, damned to her, because of their Bond that could reduce communication down to pulses exchanged with each other, and her anger and scrunched nose, her accent softer than his own, what she clung to, that she still called herself a Jedi even after all but bedding him—while in bed with him. The external and internal pressures of and to her that made her all the resilient. Expectations she faced and rose to meet. So good, she was. Better than him. Stronger.

“You are _not_. Do you understand?”

Bastila wouldn’t understand if he just rolled into her and buried his face in her chest, not really, not all the way. Could she wrap her mind around the way that he was overcome by her, in every sense, dirty and otherwise? He wanted…he wanted to ask her, beg her for relief, to save him, to reach for the blade they both knew was not so far away, and simply end this.

“I will not let you.” She tugged at him. “Revan. Sometimes. Sometimes before performing for Meditation, my Master would burn incense and have me drink tea to clear my mind. Younglings would fetch the cups.”

He opened his eyes. “Excuse me.” 

“Don’t you remember? You wanted to know how I performed my Battle Meditation. We did not drink Sith blood, but would recite the Jedi Code and the plans for the latest mission.” There was color in her cheeks. “Occasionally, I stretched before dressing in my usual garb. Once I did attempt to practice in the refresher before bathing, but then the others began knocking on the door and the tub had begun to overflow…”

He smiled. “Bastila. If we get caught by the Sith and aren’t summarily executed, maybe a weapon could be slid under your door. Or a pass code for a certain ship that’s been checked properly to make sure isn’t a complete broken piece of crap.”

“Revan.”

“That’s all I can do. If that.”

“You could…you could come onboard that ship.”

Despite himself, Revan loved her anew for that. Even as he resented and hated their shared Bond, he still felt that revolting affection just for the fact that they were connected so, and didn’t want to be separated. There were larger things looming, the logical portion of his brain knew, but what of this? Of another way? Jedi couldn’t be together, Sith could not be trusted so, but if they fought for it...Give up everything for her. Such romantic dribble, what disgusting sap that rotted out his teeth. “I could.”

Her fingers felt right in his hair.

“But you’d have to make it worth my time.”

“Obviously. You’re so self-centered.”

Her smile nearly made up for her sliding away from him. “Yes, why do you even bother with me?”

A Jedi. She liked being a Jedi, but she liked this too, Revan thought. Would like to believe. 

Must have.

“You still started it though, little Padawan. All of this. Our _romance_.”

“I did not!”

“I don’t know why you won’t admit it. We both know the truth.”

Her eyebrows contracted in that way of hers. “If I wanted a relationship with you, I wouldn’t have rejected you so many times.”

“You just have a hard time expressing your feelings is all. I absolve you of any guilt you may feel about the matter. Think nothing of it.”

“I think nothing but that you are a strange, delusional man.”

“I forgive you.”

“Oh, you are impossible.”

Yet Bastila had once wanted to talk of another way, of parallel paths where they were less doomed, where they had more time together. He allowed it, but tried to keep his own wishes to a minimum. A dehydrated man stumbling through the desert dreaming of mirages. This dying man would prefer to keep such falsity to a minimum. Let the Jedi and the Sith have their visions and lies clutched close to their chests.

If Revan could go back, chose somewhere else to be at this moment, would he go to Coruscant with its books or Malachor for that power or Korriban to die like a proper failed Sith? Go back to Dxun or another war zone, back to Cathar and warn himself of Malak’s betrayal, stop… _somewhere_ along the line of his life and chose a slightly different way.

He would be Darth Revan, she his apprentice, and together, they would render the Republic of its remaining power. Bastila would not have gone along with it under except for the circumstance he knew now.  This situation might have almost been the right one. Almost. If he’d been quicker, less trustful, sharper, Revan would have lived and captured her. She would have been turned by now, surely. They could have crushed Malak underfoot and been planning their wedding ceremony on the smoking heap where the Jedi Academy on Coruscant had once stood.

If given a second chance, an escape hatch to slip through, where could they go?

Why, to their first home. To Dantooine, with its warm grasses and gentle warm rains. A place he knew well, where he had properly begun this jolly road as Darth Revan. Go into the cold brown grass to collapse in those wild fields. No one will be around for miles. An open sky above, overcast, the moons visible even in the day. Iriaz and the kath hounds around them, and petrichor in their noses. Dust and mud will gather on their clothes, him in his black robe and her in that training suit. But it won’t matter; there will be warm rain to wash them. Tilt their heads back to drink as it rained down, there was no fear of wasting water here. The Enclave will be somewhere behind them, whole and strong, waiting for them, and they will return to it, eventually. As soon as they had enough. That was what he was willing to settle for, now. This was all he had left.  

They had been there together, apart, unknowing.

In another life.

The Sith Lord dozed, cheek pillowed against her leg, dreaming, imagining—no, it was not a vision, he would not allow himself that luxury of delusion—saw his old home, the last one he had not taken by force. Revan seemed to recall every hill and the names of the nearby farmers, the faces of the teachers nearby, every cliff and the exact sound of the howls that echoed. Even the dirt on his boots looked familiar, and so was the plain robe he wore. What color was the lightsaber hanging off his belt? What color were his eyes?

Bastila had been there, staring at him, looking every bit as strong as he had felt. Perhaps he had smiled at her, and that was why she raised her chin to meet his gaze. Perhaps he had made a joke. Perhaps he had told her again of his power and the choices and made another offer. No matter what he’d done, Bastila was unimpressed, wary, and Revan knew that she still would not join him, and could neither trust nor love him and that he’d fallen short, again, again. 

And still the dark tide was coming.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading through this.

**_“I think we understand. Love can do strange things to anyone.”_ **

**\--Bastila**

 

**_“It’s simple: when you want a man, you jab him with a bothan stunner, then while he’s screaming in pain, slap some stun cuffs on him. Then, starve him for two or three days until he becomes open for suggestion. Then double-check his bounty and see if he’s worth anything.”_ **

Mira, Knights of the Old Republic 2

* * *

 

He would kill her soon. every kiss to the forehead was only to let her guard down. They would both die here, but Revan would perish last and with more blood on his hands. He bled her, even as he turned pale and weak. He ate her, devoured her, pulled the flesh from her and cracked the bones for the marrow, left nothing in his wake, all was in his dominion, his rule, and Revan would have broken the galaxy given enough time. How could she withstand him? Fight him? Escape with herself full intact? Impossible.

Revan’s kisses left fire to melt her skin away. Her vocal chords were melted. He brushed scorched hair from her blinded eyes. “You really have no idea how you’ve ruined me so.”

Soon enough, Bastila would be freed from all of this.

White smiles. My worthy apprentice. Debates on the economic merits of an empire as opposed to a republic. Revan had ripped, neatly, bits off his robe and tied it around the end of her braid. “One day, I would like to take you to Talravin.”

Free-falling. Bastila had thought madness was something that happened to you. Not a thing that you allowed to grow inside, cultured, and actively participate in feeding. At least it had taken weeks to come to this. Her skin felt loose, translucent, no longer her own. His was gone, evaporated. This was nothing. He directed her gaze to the stars. Made of stardust and we will return to that that. We are not these simple bodies of flesh and bone. We are nothing.

Nothing like Dantooine, or Republic ships. A life both had followed. 

One neither could return to.

Days broke down. Uncountable. Her mind shied from the numbers. Rather, eat when you are hungry and sleep when you were tired. This moment here, this is all that matters. And when she slept—dream of him and Dxun and Korriban when she closed her eyes. She dreamed of him among stars and countless ships. She dreamed of fire and empty skies where no human had been before. She saw the roaming plains of her childhood, and remembered when the grass would tickle her chin. She dreamed of his invasions that brought fire, and she dreamed of the sea.  

Only to awake spooned against him. Hands clasped and under her chin, dimples when he squinted and how to cover her head with the blanket when he tried to wake her, and the question on how to transcribe this to the Council. Other, further signs of his corruption. He spoke of battles she had never been in, where his hands had been, what he had done with his blade, and Bastila listened and felt the crackle of his energy that still pulsed. Every word and repulsive act exposed and still there were more to be dragged to the surface for inspection.

“Do you remember…?”

“No, I was not there. Revan? Revan?”

His chin on his collarbone. “They killed their own Padawans, and the Council did nothing.” Doleful. Self-righteous.

A cup of tea and a brief return to sanity when it burned her tongue. Swallow and not choke. And Revan talked to table. “I nearly drowned once. The wrong door. Alak was quick though. He can be very quick.”

He claimed the Sith had surely moved on. That fool had ruined all his plans and he’d been so naïve himself to leave little backup. His apprentice would continue to wage war, and watch the horizon, but was he equal to that task? _Revan_ hadn’t been, it turned out, and Alak had always trailed him in everything. He would brood and she would half-believe as she watched him sitting there with hooded eyes until he’d shake his head, and she would go to him to push back his hair. Catlike, his eyes would fall half-lidded. Comfort.  

What she could give to him. Since Bastila could still return to the Enclave. She could. That was her home, one she hadn’t outgrown or rather, thought herself better of it. I can go there, and take him with me. I can complete my mission. I can.

Bastila could see him on her bed, only slightly more comfortable than the one they shared now. In his black robes, the remains of them so dark against the white sheets. She could see him there, and not even blush. She could take him with her, like a pet that followed her. What, hide him under her cot? Feed him scraps from her hand. Pet and walk him. Keep him covered in Jedi robes and claim he was new to the Academy. A farmer that needed her help. A blind farmer, that’s why they held hands so. Oh, the Master, all her Masters especially Master Vrook would be so disappointed with her.

I can change him. All the things we’ve discussed, lessons. On compassion and Jedi lore and philosophy. I’ll be his teacher and lead him back to the light.

Yes, and he says he loves me—which even I don’t believe.

Delusions.

They would both die soon, before the damage of what he’d done could ever be undone. The bomb, perhaps, would be it. She could not take a weapon to him, not now. Watching the light dim from his eyes would _hurt_ —because she could survive it, but just. To see him fall to her again, to her _hands_ , to know with certainty that he was dead, that Bastila was sure she did not want to face.

He was part of her now, as no one else had.

Strange, lovely and terrible, all this intimacy. That you could reach out and touch someone. It startled them both, that they did this, were capable of it, and how it affected them still. You could be so vulnerable, holding your hand out, and finding that someone would take it. Did you care for another for themselves, or what they did for and to you? Did one equal the other? Why forgive? The other affected the self. The self allowed the other to effect it. Allowed, relented, could not resist. You a mortal body, but so much _more_.

She heard that music again, the rising sounds of what was just wood and strings, and thought of beauty.

Revan was still himself, and there could be something kind to that, besides the horror. What they were would separate them, always. Bastila would have thought forgiveness could come to a Jedi more easily than this. But neither would forget what Revan had done. Love came with an understanding of the other, and maybe that was why she would not have any for him; there was too much in Revan that Bastila did not want to know. What she got flickers of, what she felt, the memories and stories…he was the sum of all that, exaggerated though some of it must be. Still and always Revan the Butcher, with no regrets or sorrow or mercy.

If it hadn’t didn’t feel so good, if she wasn’t so weakened, Bastila might have done something melodramatic like weeping and fought against this harder. The have-to, the must, the-could-not. She should fight this harder.

Revan claimed it added to their attraction. Was their attraction, which she half-believed. ‘Not my abundant physical charms?’ Narrow dirty eyes. Himself so hidden away. What was shown was repulsive, even to him, a rediscovered shame, _don’t look_ but Bastila could not look away. For all his talk of embracing emotions, there were many things he had repressed and denied. 

A full swoon into him. Revan. She fell, tumbled over into what was not darkness but his arms. Were they one and the same? Impossible to say anymore. How embarrassing.

His eyes, before the taint of the dark side, might have been a rich, warm shade of brown, flecked with amber and russet, muddy and warm. Or green, emerald, grass and seaweed. Blue, lovely, pale or dark, skies and seas. Grey as her own, shadows and quicksilver. She could have noticed them as she did those ochre eyes that could freeze her into place. It didn’t matter. He cracked his left pinkie periodically and laughed wildly in toneless cackles and sighs and had boney knees and none of that mattered.   

Murderer and Sith and traitor that could not be trusted, and hers, complete, willingly.

And him, her. It had to be said. He undid her. You could momentarily live with what Revan was, if you wanted to, and Bastila _did_. When she searched through the Force, to find a warning, an answer, a condemnation, she only felt Revan’s presence. And Revan would not longer turn away when she looked at him, no, he came running with open arms.

What did _he_ see? A Jedi and guardian to the Republic, his enemy and someone he had wanted dead. An apprentice. A woman that he wanted and sing in falsetto sickeningly trite love songs to and fought him off, still.

Lolling together, kissing the nape of her neck and the top of her head. Ignoring her grimace and squirms. “I do. I do adore you so, Padawan.” A silly grin on that ruined, reduced face.

Shut up, oh shut up. I could. I _could—_ But she didn’t know what she could do or be. What this _even was._

It might be the dark side,  all that she feared, everything that she feared because she was so _scared_ —of being afraid, of being used, of his power over her, that they would die soon and sure that she had failed at being a Jedi.

Bastila had never been so exposed and afraid and cared for in such a way. Masters liked and were concerned by their students, but always had to keep a distance. A dutiful care. Even putting kolto on wounds and washing the mud from their hair, one had to keep themselves apart and vigilant. You had to keep watch. They were not parents or something as informal as friends; never entirely could one allow such closeness.

Her own Master had never done that. Still she saw that unhappy face and cold eyes. Will you ever learn to control your emotions, apprentice?

It had been years since she allowed herself to remember more than short glimpses into her past. Jedi do not linger. Her father bundling her up for the foggy weather of the home world she would never see again, and swooping her up when he got back, she had always waited at the door for him to return, seemingly weeks at the entrance to one ship or another. Adored and taken care of.

But never been obliterated like this. Loved so solely and singularly, because of who she was and what she had done and all did. No, more than that. Not the adoring, fawning of those that depended on her and were so happy to assume she could do no wrong; he was more than eager to point out all her failings. Revan would mock her voice and her title and, and still adore her—care for her because of those flaws that proved she was only mortal being. It amused him.  

They shared memories. Flickers of them. He was so careful about what he chose. She saw enough and too little and he the same. Childhood memories, things half-forgotten. Deaths, his old friends scattered and what he’d watched occur under his orders. Quant indignities and insecurities of each other. Her mother had used to do her braids and Bastila continued to part and cross the strands so. She gifted and cursed, removed from others and constantly prodded, the poor prodigal girl. Him always with a book or datapad nearby, hiding his face, the poor misunderstood child genius, how they laughed. Both of them so alone.

Revan saw and did not turn away. Accepted. Only you.

He looked into her, all she felt, and only repeated, _yes, yes, only you._

What she could not accept. That. _Him._

A man of passions who had lost all Jedi sensibility and discipline, who chased her round and round and when he caught her both were reduced to laughter. They had little to go off of in terms of romance. He had taken occasional lovers but would be the first to admit how short they had fallen of this storm that left them so shell-shocked. Blinking up at the ceiling, oh my. He pounded a fist on the table. “Fine, you are the _bes_ t! Does that please you, Bastila?”

It did, obviously. “Of course not.”

Flickering eyes.

“Then what will?”

Like the teenagers at the enclave, sure they were the first to discover kissing. But weren’t they the first for this? When it came to this, everything felt new. Infinity in skin, every inch every touch new and a mystery, a futility they both embraced. All the terrible things she knew now. He would trace her fingernails and leave her flustered. She would dart away as he flung himself across the table. Bastila was not the first Padawan he had ruined.

Mercy might be as dangerous as anything else, Bastila had learned.

Sparing the Revanchist. What a foolish thing. He would not thank her, not even now. Revan had been right; she should have killed him on that ship, and then escaped. Or just left him to die. Why should he survive the monster he had created out of his friend?

But it was too late, and Bastila hardly had the energy for regret. His eyes rolled under his lids in curious patterns when he slept.

She wrote to the Council. She wrote to her Master. She wrote to her father. She wrote to Revan.

She wrote too often to Revan.

I want to take you where no one will ever learn your name. I won’t follow. I have a war to fight. I just want to know that you’ll be okay. Somewhere. Safe and sane and free to drive others to exasperation. I mean it as a kindness. It’s selfish, this thing we share. What you are and what I am. We cannot be together. You must know this. It’s wrong. It’s wrong to even pretend you’re something else or can just change just chance because of me

She wrote until she could talk again and could delete everything previously written.

Yet what was there to say. He spoke at her, in certain moments, replayed conversations, and Bastila found she had enough energy still for pity as well. His grin electric, charming. ‘Did I tell you of the time I went about disguised and our transporter broke down? We were forced to sell the clothes off our backs in order to get it fixed. Everything but our lightsabers. I must still have some sand in my boots.’

Revan could accept her, but she would not forget what he was and all he had done. No matter how her body reacted. And they would just crash head-first into a wall and lie stunned and _frustrated_.

No?

No.

…Now?

…No.

A party where the jokes and double-entendres had gone over her head, sweaty hands on her knees as she tried to be will herself to gain a few years in age, too flustered, too young. But Bastila was wiser now, in so many ways. Now she could have stood up and gone to those foolish underlings with their cackles and side glances at her, and tell them how that Sith would be like as a lover for a Jedi, if not how the two would act entering a cantina together.

Oh, probably a duel—but it would be the _Sith_ that started it.

She was an adult. A grown woman. Revan liked to remind her of that at every criticism for still being a Padawan

“I never asked.” Revan was still capable of getting some joke in, even at the worst moments. _Particularly_ them. Such as right before you fell asleep, to inspire nightmares. Then he’d hold you and feign such pity, poor Bastila, had she a bad dream? “About the _actual_ possibility of offspring one day? Is that ungentlemanly?”

Bastila had sat up. “Oh. _Oh._ That’s not…Revan, how could you ask that? Disgusting—no, shut up. I don’t want to discuss this with you. We will _never_! How could—no. No. I took precautions. Before I left—don’t even start with the jokes.”

She was back with the Fleet, an _Officer_ , standing there in like to take the shot along with so many other soldiers—for its other benefits, health wise. It was something the other Jedi did as well, so she too had lined up for it. With not a single dirty thought in her mind either. There had been no temptation then, towards any person. Jedi were allowed to have physical relations, but it was rather discouraged. Should be done only done after careful study and awareness, was the general idea presented to a bunch of squirming Jedi teenagers. In addition, if such an act was performed, it was to be with only someone you could trust but without passion, free from the attachment such a thing could bring. Bastila could recall those speeches and feel her face still burn far too much for a grown woman.

Half of that vow had been broken, Bastila figured. At least. There had been nothing written about developing a comradery with a Sith Lord and how handle that situation so she just had to struggle along and try to do better with the other parts of the Code. At least, she had succeeded in not entirely forgetting herself. It could have been worse; she could really be worried about the effectiveness of that shot.   

He acted stunned. “What? Jokes about you planning on seducing me all along? I wouldn’t do that. Only suspect it. See, though, it’s more good luck. The Force wants us together.”

“I have serious doubts about that.”

“Then why did you get that shot? The Force told you to. Now there’ll be no little Revans to bug you, will there?”

For so _many_ reasons. At the least, the dark side might have even sterilized Revan, if he hadn’t taken his own shots. There had been such questions at the Academy and in the Fleet, and she would _never_ tell him that. “No.”

“Or any little Bastilas to follow me around, asking endless questions?”

“No. Revan. Revan? Are you _sad_?” The galaxy crumbled a little further.

He tugged at her hair, with an obvious fondness. “Only partially. I guess we won’t take the possibility of others down with us. Never liked the thought of going alone. Guess you’d follow me though.”

“Stop with the suicide pacts. Please.”

“I will. Promise. Last one.”

Did he think that was romantic, to have a child with her taken with them both to death? Fitting rather than grotesque, or both, they would go hand in hand for Revan. Imagine if she had become pregnant and they did survive this. No exiled, necessarily, the Order forgave, Bastila believed, but how could she stay in the Order, serving on Republic ships? Revan’s child, half of her and half a Sith Lord. Dark or light eyes and with her milky-olive skin and brown hair. Themselves distilled. Why would Revan want that?

She would not let him ruin another person. Himself crouched in those robes, hands outstretched to that small person and offering conditional love.

Bastila thought she might understand Master Kae leaving better now.

Revan rolled over onto her. “That face again. What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.”

“It’s never ‘nothing.’” He gave a loud, perfectly obnoxious kiss to her nose. “But I won’t pry. I just will trust you to tell me how you feel. Since you know you can tell me anything. I’ll take it to my grave without telling another soul, I swear.”

Which drew a reluctant smile. Gallows humor might be better than none. “It wasn’t anything, Revan.”

“Go ahead and keep your secrets. Maybe I have a few of my own.”

“What does _that_ mean?”

“You’ll have to pry it from me. Endless torture to get me to reveal my feelings—or I could just tell you again how much I cherish you with every waking moment.”

“That’s not a secret, then, is it?”

“But can you guess how I’d like to express what I’m feeling?”

If she punched him, Revan would just come crawling back into this bed. It had happened before, and just resulted in wrestling that teetered into something far more tawdry and unspeakable. Sweaty and pushing him away, Bastila had asked, “I thought you were going to teach me to use the _Force_ better?”

He’d been out of breath, still trying to figure out how to yank her out of her suit. That hissing voice could be the very thing that defeated her.  “Oh, apprentice, I have so _many_ things to teach you.”

All you have to do is ask. Is that so much?

Yes. She slapped the hands away from zippers and buttons and even braids. Still, his touch and words lingered. _Was_ he keeping things from her? Aside from skills with the Force? Stories about his Sith army? The things he kept from her, even now.

The things he wanted from her, now.

He would beg for her. When awake, he would plead for her. Searching for comfort and explanations and she told the truth. You are real, yes? Yes. He would beg for Arren Kai and for Zhar, and for Alak, always ‘Alak’ now. When asleep, he would beg for his old friends, and ask to go back. Misery and forgiveness. They are alive, and you will see them again. Jedi were not supposed to lie yet she did.

Jedi were not supposed to be angry either, yet she was.

Are you real?

Yes, yes I am.

Revan wasn’t himself. Whatever he had been, whatever he’d been capable of, seemed to be beyond him. His eyes seemed to be brown. When he looked, and she looked back, if with her eyes half-shielded. In those good, awful moments, when he was himself, whole and strong, and not the man that asked her why his Master had not returned yet, as though Bastila could give him a reply. Force, but he could be so _beautiful_ through the Force. Alive and burning, awareness and control. A black sun, ablaze with power. He was all the power of the universe it had seemed.

Now he felt weaker, confused, and perhaps exposing him to the Force was what caused it. But she could not take it away from him. Through the Force and their Bond, now, they truly felt each other. All the physical interactions were revealed to be as nothing more than a prologue, an introduction, an echo, to what they might be.

If I died, the Council changed me, would it hurt you too? His deep panging longing, hungry for food she could not give. When there was little food, even literally, to give. Though, there was still enough fear to sour the taste.

And a growing, reluctant trust. At the least, there was no one else to talk to, and their Bond made it easy to forget certain boundaries. A Jedi, still, she knew, and one that had found some small comfort in intimacy with another, even if that person was a Sith Lord. One that claimed to love her, no matter how much Bastila refused and disagreed on that count. Bastila could not love a Sith, could not love anyone in this way, as she’d told him a hundred times. She _would not_ love him, if she could make an objective stance when it came to this, no, she did and would not love him. 

No matter how he might try to charm her with tea and insisting on his regard for her.

Or when they would fall asleep, wrapped up in one another. Or wake to him kissing her forehead, reminding her that this was another day, another chance for anything to happen like perhaps now she would be tired of resisting his inescapable charm?  

This man that so cared, and was compelling, despite her cringing, his horrible reciting of exceedingly violent poetry (‘no, I am not a well-honed weapon, stop.’) or perhaps because of his awful attempts at yanking her even closer. His eyes alit, and yes, less yellow, watching her. Her friend, Bastila knew now. His repenting of all he’d done in this form of a doting, annoying lover, it must be. All of it was too late. Still, Revan was capable of warmth, at least there was that.

She hadn’t failed at her mission, completely.

As Revan would constantly prod her with. “Don’t worry, you’re still my favorite Jedi. Failure or not. In fact, those are the best kind. Who better to see them for what they are than those that fell short of the ideal?”

Rile her up and then jump on her. Leap on her once, wrestling using the Force and neither losing. Breathless and warm. When he was there, whole and sane.

His dreams crept into her own, and she would awake, chilled, trying to recall a thing she had never experienced. But this stranger didn’t seem to be Revan, when he cuddled up to her to press the tip of his cold nose into her neck. He was just a man. One that still shouldn’t be this close to her, but still. And she could close her eyes and go back to sleep.

His memories were his own.

Let them stay that way.

Revan gave what she didn’t want, would deny it the next morning, and never tell her anything she wished to know. He had once shown the galaxy the plight of refugees and demanded the Senate provide for them, demanded the Jedi assist these people, demanded that the Republic avenge those that had been lost and make their deaths have meanings. Malak had been taller, more solid, the hero in the Holos that always made the right choice, but Revan’s distance, surety, passion was as compelling as anything else the Jedi had ever done. The Supreme Commander of the Republic Navy, given with all due sincerity and solemnity, face still hidden behind the mask throughout the ceremony.

Join him, be brave, be resilient. Save us, Jedi who will not show his face anymore and had gotten even rid of his true name. Save us. Save us from those faceless masses—from the Mandalorians whose mask you wear to cover your true face.

Save us from the Sith. Bastila heard them, the soldiers and civilians and Jedi, even the Jedi Masters. You must save us from the Sith. You are our only hope. She was _trying_.

Bastila had admired him as much as everyone else, she could admit that. Even if she had never, ever written him a love letter to slide beneath his door, of course not, he had been all the way on Coruscant. Revan had been brave and reckless and heroic. Revan had been all a Jedi should be, until he wasn’t. When he had disappeared, she had mourned with the rest, and promised herself to be like the Revanchist, to be better than that lost figure—

The blackness of his ship, and her fear that had to be taken in hand, and looking up, following and seeing him. But the gone this time, and he wore all red. The t-shaped visor was gone, the better to see his cheekbones and teeth flash, the dimple in his chin, as he tilted his head back to laugh. And Bastila would continue moving forward to hear him, ‘Bastila Shan _, I have waited for you_.’

Tell me everything, she might command, and he would laugh and dodge away.

Bastila had been a restless child. Always squirming and getting into something. Now she had learned to sit (lean, sometimes against him, usually against a wall). Sit and be quiet. Fix her hair. Long for his touch, for him to come up behind her, wrap an arm around her throat, and simple remove her from this place. He was no longer simply her captive. Maybe it would be mercy. Maybe it wouldn’t hurt.

Was she brave enough to hold that weapon to her head and flick it on? Perhaps a final duel.

You lured me into your trap.

How could she have known this is how her life would end? That road she’d begun, the first step when she’d been taken from her parents (her father’s hand on her shoulder, telling her to be good while Mother waited, impatient to leave) to crafting her first blade to the awareness during one lesson that she could stretch out her consciousness a little longer and deeper than the others and that leap from the small Republic ship onto the Revanchist’s flagship. She had never made her master proud. Her mother had never wanted her. Her father hadn’t loved enough to fight for her. A thousand tiny disappointments that still licked and ached.

They were not solely her own, either.

Bastila wanted to strangle him. Damn you, I care for you. How dare you make me worry. And Revan felt the same way, when he was capable of it. I hate you for changing me. It was another chain around them, this Bond, and it was impossible to cut themselves loose. I was stronger without you. But still, she wore the torn ribbons in her hair.

Bastila was losing herself here. Lost already.

She wandered and doubted everything again, especially like when she was like this, this horrible scene that would repressed soon after. His command. _Finally_ , his command, “You still think you can hide from me. No, Padawan. I tire of this game. Undress yourself.”

Her fingers against her mouth were obscene. “I won’t. Revan. Stop this.”

“ _Now_. Or I will.”

_Please._ She hated the shivers, herself for allowing this. Her hands had wanted to pull at clasps. No one would ever know of this. Please. He knew all her secrets.

“You’d like that, wouldn’t you? To be mine.”

That _voice._

Bastila scrambled at his armor, trying to remember hoops and buckles. Holding him to stand up, and hoping to drop him to his knees. Rough gloves against her face. They tasted like ink and smelled of books and blood. Lead her. No, just give her permission.  “I didn’t say you could do that. Hungry little Jedi. Is this what the Jedi Council sent you to do? Is this your way of saving me?”

Those hands were meant to tug her hair. 

“Convince me, Padawan, to return with you to the Council.”

She nearly smiled. The implication of trust that was involved. The feeling of him shivering. He closed his eyes and just let go. Amazing, that he didn’t fear now she might turn on him as his actual apprentice had done. Revan had all the courage, and would never truly change. But those knees might be getting a little weak. She kissed his palm. “No.”

His fall backwards reminded them both that his last apprentice had also ruined his other plans as well.

No matter what, the Jedi could still find it in her to flinch from him. To stay awake often, just waiting for him to fall asleep first. Afraid, though of what it was hard to say. Of having an eye gauged out as he cupped a cheek and look down at her? Perhaps he would nip at her neck and she would know he was soon going to take a bite and leave her bleeding to death.

To do this meant love.

Supposedly. That’s what they said, anyway.

Bastila had no experience with such things. Celibacy had always been something she had taken for granted. Unlike the others, it seemed at times. Oh, they had not been serious about their comments, but still, one had to wonder of the commitment of those that giggled over Master Kavar? The ones that did slip away, if briefly, for another’s touch?

She had judged, and this was her punishment.

The Jedi Padawan would bring him back to the Council, wrapped in chains, enclosed in a heavy, large box and – he would pop up and out to embrace her, all fresh-cheeked and boyish, eager for redemption. She would let him go, escape, weak and pathetic like some particularly grating protagonist of a _romance_ holo, and they would meet onboard a new ship with blooms of fire behind them, and reach for their weapons in one final confrontation—and then he would falter in one moment of compassions but too late, as her weapon would be descending on his _stupid_ handsome face. The Council would take the force from him, exile him, and then, years and years later on some mission after the war was over and the Republic spread peace, they would meet again in a store and it would be _quite_ awkward.

…and maybe he would be married as a regular citizen and with children, and she would be a Jedi, a Master, and presumably the Council would still uphold its rules about romantic attachment because of course they would and well, it would just be very odd to see him with a family and normal job and that would be that. Never mind the sudden cough that overcame her frame at that idea. A curious ending to the Revanchist and she would just append to certain pieces in the Archive with this information, and then never think about any of this again and especially not of his wife and kids and the roads not taken, and the really, the absurd _things_ that came into a persons head in the early hours of the morning as you listened to someone’s snores.

Or they would go back, and he would scornful, disdainful, and doubtful. But doubtful of everything. Bastila saw him in fine, dark robes head thrown back impetuously as he spoke to the Council, a sudden halter to his speech, the kind dark eyes of the Master Vandar showing forgiveness for this lost Jedi Knight, and yes, his voice would crack and his brows would be stormy and mouth loose. ‘I was wrong. I need help. I want to help.’ And from somewhere in the back of the room, Bastila would smile and see the amazement on the Council’s face, the respect, ‘Padawan Shan how did this happen?’

Her Knighthood would come shortly and Revan’s humility would be sweet. They would be equals and perhaps, friends. Partners. Together, they would stop Malak and all Sith and injustice in the galaxy as a whole. Yes, that sounded good.

All they needed was to survive this and be found, by the _Republic_ , assume neither were executed on the spot, and could find their way back to the Council, make sure Revan was allowed to speak and that he would indeed want redemption and the Council would agree to this, and Malak could be stopped at all and avoiding general death-by-random-accident-or-vengeance, they could do that. _Commander_ Shan and the Revanchist, not enemies, but allies. The Sith would quake in their boots before them.   

And then Bastila would push the pillow aside and estimate that she’d spent a good half hour on this fantasy, right down to special (hilariously dramatic) robes Revan would insist on wearing, and the sudden regretful swallow from one particularly rude Jedi Padawan at the Enclave on Dantooine  (‘I guess I was wrong about Shan’), and find Revan talking in his sleep and informing an assassin that the senator must die, and quickly.

She was a fool, and he was a bastard that deserved to be kicked awake.

…Why was she doing this with a Sith Lord? Why was she being ‘seduced’ not by the dark side necessarily but by the chance at dinners and long talks of the dark side and simple plots of holos.

Because he might be saved through such actions. But doing so led her down a dark path? But this was to redeem him.

Her mind stopped and reversed. Then just stopped.

Revan compared her to one of his droids with a broken circuit somewhere. Did she need his archwrench to help her feel better? Ugh, how could she have forgotten herself for him? What they did had to mean they shared feelings and attachment, didn’t it? Did it matter anyway? No one would know of her failing. There was only this brief distraction before they joined the Force.

Bastila had to make peace with all of this. With meditation (that was useless as he would come up behind to tickle her of all things) and reciting the Code (that he repeated with exaggerated faces of disgust) and trying to not despise herself for laughing at his jokes and kissing him so. Tugging at his hair and watching the exposed neck twitch at being so vulnerable, so fetching.

That must mean she was attached to him, yes?

Was it? She still wanted to strangle him, when she could recall his bravado, his slyness and narcissism. There was more to it, though, than the countless dead and wounded; it was personal as well. Because of him she had lost a Master, had her teenage years twisted, had her training put on hold, and as a response to his violence had alright fought in a war. Revan would apologize for none of it.

It was a p _ositive_ to him, all that he had done to her. ‘You would be doing your trick to the curiosity of the Order,’ he insisted. ‘You would be some tiny footnote, if anything, in history. Perhaps you would not even have your ability if not for me, hmm, perhaps the _stress_ helped you develop it. You are welcome, Shan.’

But it wasn’t just her _abilities_ he wanted to discuss. He lingered around the refresher and would dig teeth into the hollow of her arm. More, more than even that. Revan, Darth Revan, made it clear he wanted more than just the physical apex they approached if not explored so often. He half-assumed it must mean more, and it did, and it didn’t.

But it was the talking that might truly undo her. It had been the beginning of this path that led to waking up with him asleep and heavily sprawled across the bed and her.

That this could be love was even more unforgivable.

It wasn’t, she insisted.

But it might be. If everything was different, and she wasn’t a Jedi, and he was less evil, maybe, maybe something along those lines could have been a possibility. There was a _universe_ where that might have happened.

If he were more…if he were less…

For all the goodness that she believed was still in him, the acceptance that he could repent, the light that might be in him still, there was very little compassion in him. It had been left out of his genetic makeup seemingly. Yes, Revan had fought against the Mandos for the sake of the Republic and for the great masses of people, and perhaps he had cared for those careless masses at one point. But he was seemingly unashamed of the torture he had participated in and the murder of friends and allies. Revan _smirked_ at her reaction. Everyone dies, after all, so why not make someone else’s death useful for myself?

That was his own Code, and that Bastila refused to accept.

If _she_ were less, a lesser Jedi, a lesser creature, perhaps Revan might have had a chance. As it was, Revan would finish up another horrible speech on might making right, of effective torture for Jedi, followed by, ‘Now why don’t we try that kissing thing some more?’ and wonder why she was so repulsed. No, she could not love Revan. No matter what he said or how hazy and hazel his eyes would become, she didn’t love him, and that might be a crime to him. Perhaps that was what would kill her, that inability and his refusal to just accept that fact.

Even if we were both the same gender, he’d claimed. Was that true? Had she a preference or was that something else taken for granted? For the longest time, Bastila had been quite unclear on even Revan’s gender, let alone thought about a hypothetical sexuality. If pressed, with a weapon pointed at her, she might have thought to prefer someone…well, she would have wanted someone brave and compassionate. Maybe substantially taller than her, muscled perhaps fi she was allowed such thoughts, and brave, selfless and dashing, even if she couldn’t quite imagine the face of this supposed ‘love.’ Was that what she was supposed to prefer?

The person she would break her vows for should be, well…she wanted—oh, she wanted someone more dependable. A man that did not lapse into other languages or stare into space and bleed from the nose at random intervals, that had never attempted to murder his best friend. Kindly, patient. Broader than Revan, Bastila could be allowed that vanity _. Saner_. Perhaps less, less s _keptic_ and more dutiful. He could keep that voice though, yes, but not the awful jokes and absurd flirting.

Bastila knew him too well. Parts of him, facets that he revealed, whether he wanted to or not.

She didn’t have his gratitude, his admiration, only maybe grudging respect. At most, Revan wanted her to his side as another tool in this war. ‘My Empress.’ The way he interrupted her, constantly. He was still the awful man that had turned on all he’d sworn, but there were worse people to have been stuck with, Bastila was willing to allow. Malak would probably been tiresome as well.

Exhaustion and acceptance had more in common than she would have believed.

There was sincerity there, she did know, from their Bond, but even that could not be trusted. Who knew what technique he had learned, to hide his emotions from those closest to him? Him on bended knee for her, hair spilling on his forehead, as he pressed his face into her knees. “I won’t leave you. I promise you that. I’ll never leave you.”

Perhaps she didn’t want to believe him.

Sometimes, she dreamed of finding a shadow draped in red, and bringing her blade across that face that no longer smirked so, and some of anger was some of her own. He had helped, after all, and had not stopped Revan either.

Betrayed, we were betrayed.

Who was? Revan? _Revan_?

(Bastila hadn’t cried yet, and wouldn’t start now.)

(Especially over him.)

Hours blurred together. Maybe there was no difference between waking and being asleep. Even with her eyes closed, Bastila still felt and saw Revan there.

None of it felt real.

None of it was real.

But did that mean this was a nightmare, or a dream?

When Bastila looked up at him, she found his presence almost a comfort. The way he leaned forward to tug at burned wires and the faint furrows in his brow. This was fondness. Yes, alright. Revan the Butcher, she reminded herself. Revan, who talks of poetry and love and war and might kiss well enough to make all of those arguments go away.

What did he know, anyway? 

About this. About them. About her. He didn’t know anything about her.

She didn’t know anything about him. What could _he_ know about the Force, about the universe? He was just another fallen Jedi, driven mad from the war, a lesson to all. But ometimes he was her friend. Sometimes Bastila didn’t know who he was. Sometimes he touched her face, and asked if she was real.

When he awoke, in those tears for her to feel dropping across her own face, I have killed both of us. I have doomed all of us. And Bastila would remember to be afraid. Fingers on her spine as she rested next to him, cold.

_I was so sick of his smirks as he asked what I would do next like I needed his approval, like he had a plan._

“Revan?”

Come back.

“Nothing. It was nothing. It doesn’t matter.”

Then, later:  _I was so disgusted by what was left. I should have killed him. Why didn’t I kill him_

“Stop,” she would whisper, but then he would, and that was worse.

Revan would panic, and Bastila would have to remind herself that the fear was his and not her own. “I can hardly breathe. It would have been better to have died there. Anything would be better than this. Bastila.” Those eyes were wild. “I need to get out.”

You can’t.

“Breathe. Just breathe.”

His own dumb panic when walking around and touching the walls, “This is it, this is really it?”

His eyes so wide and afraid, a boy in black robes. Then he would come back from all that, and smile. It’s okay. The Force had made him worse. She should put the collar back on him. Deny their Bond. He was in no shape to fight her. The true battle was passive, and his best weapon was his smile.

He had seduced her with hope, but that was slipping away and she feared what would be left when that was gone—but Revan still needed someone there to wake him when he cried out in his dreams. He was forgetting things.

She had been trained to kill him. Oh not told to _kill_ , the words they had used had been to _capture_ , but they had all known it would be a matter of martial ability and the Revanchist was not a man that had ever been bested. She would not learn of his gender or exact height or face, but would learn of his weapons, his ostentatious fighting style, the slight hitch when he dove to the right to lure you into thinking that was his weak side, his skill with the Force but limited reach even with his two blades. Bastila had studied him as she hadn’t when he was the Revanchist and the pride of the Order. She had learned of his flagship, the style and design and modifications.

Only after he’d turned traitor could she notice him.

Her own Master had finally told her, before they had left for the ship, that she could not afford to hesitate, if it came to it, kill herself or him. Do this, do that. Unsure it would be enough. Take this collar as well. They, all of the Republic, all of the Order and the thousands years of civilization and the light side needed Bastila.

What choice did they have but this last desperate gamble?

Bastila recalled the coded message to return, and face the Council. For a moment, the Padawan had thought she might, well, that she might face her Trials and be Knighted. She was once again before the Masters, trying to stand tall, feeling every year of her life and months of fighting the war. Soldiers listening to her with less and less skepticism, the nodded heads in the halls of the Enclave, the whispers of _Bastila Shan_.  

How little that all meant now.

How little there was now, in the galaxy. Bastila remembered her father’s books and what he’d told her of Talravin. There were old Jedi temples that had crumbled and fallen a thousand years before. The last Sith war had hurt the Jedi Order in ways they were still healing from and might never recover from this latest blow, it was feared. So much had been stolen or destroyed a generation before. All the best had been lost before either she and Revan had been born.

Above her, hundreds of feet away, Revan nearly raced around the ship, checking things, making a fuss, refusing to calm down. He pulled her to her feet and reminded her of another meditation technique, to feel the Force flowing from the top of her head down to her feet as though she were a child still unable control even the slightest aspect of her power.

Cleaned the sheets even. Scooped her up and placed her on a chair. And didn’t make too many comments about how they had looked wrapped around her, even while she had to blush and avoid eye contact. Sleeping in was the least of her crimes but she felt cold out of bed.

Him awake and alive.

Bastila would not pretend she hadn’t been lucky in some ways (even in this, in some ways, she knew what others did not, experienced what they never what, hoard what little she could that she mattered still in some way while he kissed her neck and made her pulse jump) so why lie? She was already dead and him the same. Both had been struck dead the moment her ship had slid passed his flagship’s defenses and the flickering shield. The rest was just play.

Revan offered power and rebellion some semblance of strength and would allow her to picture some future, horrid or not. He tricked her. He lied to her.

‘I like your eyes,’ he would whisper.

Turn off the light.

She stopped writing to the Council. She ran out of things to tell her Master. She forgot to write to her father. She deleted her writings to Revan.

She dreamed of broken lights and broken planets, a weapon scattered to pieces on the ground. A sword in hand, whole, something to hold on while she watched its owner die. Vengeance, thick and bitter, and something that was not quite regret but dissatisfaction. She saw herself, looking brave and holding a bright gold blade. ‘ _Bastila Shan, I have waited for you. I have so much to show you. I have such things to show you. We will learn so much together.’_

When she awoke, hours later, he stood above her. She could not make out his expression. “You did this to me,” he annunciated very clearly. “You think I’ve forgotten that? I have not. You think I will forgive? I will not.”

Slowly, he crumpled inward next to the bed and did not move.

Sleep did not come so easily after that.

He is insane, you know that, yes? It would have been kinder to let him die there under Malak’s attack.

She could attack him. She could simply push and hold him underwater as he bathed. Revan was in no shape to fight her.

Instead she looked at that soft bulge in his neck and watched him squirm. Instead she asked of the last war with her back against the wall. Instead she would lie next to him with not a single thought in her head, go ahead, take your revenge. Instead, she wanted to hear how he was planning on winning his next war.

He was good with machinery. She had seen that as he carefully inspected and assembled chores, as gentle as a surgeon. A bomb would be easy enough for him to figure out. The explosion would be silent and change nothing in the universe. They would have both been marked AWOL by their respectable militaries. A small fire in the cold galaxy that would die so quickly and neither would see. Revan would show her what wires must be set, and would want her to press the button. It would be the last thing she learned from him.

She would feel the cold.

Teach me, she might have. Teach me whatever you want. I want to learn everything, Revan, everything—I will be your apprentice. I will be whatever you want. I could do it. I can pledge myself to you. Why hide, why have any secrets anymore between us? No one will ever know.

“Bastila?”

“Yes?”                                                                                                                                                       

His voice was hushed. “I think you would have been Knighted soon.”

Bastila looked into the gaps between the stars. A Knight. Yes, she had wanted that. “Do you?”

“Yes. You earned it.”

A Jedi. They had both been Jedi at some point. “Thank you. You were a good Knight, too. At one point. And…I think on occasion you are quite humorous.”

“I _knew_ it.”

At his request, they passed the moment sitting there on the bunk, dressed and cozy. Him fully clothed in what passed for clothing. It looked a joke now, scary Revan in his black robes and pseudo-Mando armor. Yet Bastila didn’t smile. He looked at his knees, at his flowing robes with a wide-eyed surprise. A boy playing dress-up. He could still scare her.

She looked at her boots, still scuffed. His grin was worn around the edges. “Normally you would prefer me in much less.”

“Normally I see you in less,” she corrected.

“Special occasion. Besides, don’t I look nice in them. Not all of us can present the same picture you do in Jedi robes. In anything. Nothing.”

Sleep would come, thankfully, and she felt her eyes fall half-lidded. Let him pull her closer? Revan did have some possessive streak that perhaps counted as love for him. It didn’t matter; they would be dead soon anyway. If she collapsed, he would pick her up and hold her. But she wanted to thank him, suddenly, for that.

“It is quite alright. Thirsty? Hm? No, it tastes fine to me. Here. Drink up.” Revan took the canteen back, not looking at her. If the water was contaminated, they were surely done for, Bastila thought vaguely. Or perhaps that aftertaste had been her imagination.

“What if,” he began, “there was a way to go back and undo the worst thing you’ve ever done?”

“There is no such thing as second chance in that manner, Revan.”

“Let’s just say there are. For sake of argument. If you could change one thing, would you?”

“What a pointless question.” Bastila opened her eyes. She struggled to put the pieces together. “Change one thing? What, never become a Jedi? I’d rather die as a Jedi than live a hundred years as anything else.” She would die a Jedi, yes. Her cheek wanted to find his bony shoulder. “Would I leave you for dead? Is that your question?”

“If you could go back and do that, would you?”

“No. No, I don’t think so” She was brave and would not have regrets. “After all, I did complete my mission and stopped Darth Revan.”

Why was he so pale, crestfallen? Edgy? She had to focus on seeing him properly.

“Bastila, none of this has to happen. This could all be a minor mistake for you.” His hand was heavy against hers. She was sinking low, and he could push her underwater and hold her there and she would not fight. “You wouldn’t have to tell anyone. Just be between us. A slight failing, if that, on your part. I am the deviant, the corrupting influence. Not a fall. It wasn’t, Bastila. You are not a Sith. Not like the Jedi either for that matter.

“Do you see, _you_ can still choose. Don’t forget that. No matter what happens, you can still choose to do what is right for you. The Jedi Counsel thinks they have taken that from you, but they are wrong.” His grip hurt. “I’m rambling. I used to talk to myself when things got bad during the war. Comforting to hear a voice. I can talk to you now, though. You were always here to listen even when you didn’t want to. Just like I had to listen to you.”

Revan let her pull away. “I’ll shut up now.” He whispered something else, something she preferred to pretend was inaudible, then, “Go back to sleep.”

Bastila could. With her arms around the pillow and face pressed into his cold fabric and not his cold chest. Another night. Would she be able to sleep? She was exhausted and slipping away after all. He would lie next to her tonight. Then awake and kill her this time, surely. Revan had shamed and changed her, shown her no secret weapons, no Sith secrets, not even her home world. Only himself. Yet he had not lied to her.

The Jedi fell asleep to his voice. ‘ _Bastila Shan, I have waited for you. I have so much to show you. I have such things to show you.’_

The Force told her what to expect ten seconds before it happened.

It remained enough with her to give her a warning. It was the sun creeping over the horizon and the first raindrops to fall across her face. She rolled over. Why were her limbs so dumb? Get up. Her tongue was heavy. An eternity to find her feet and stand up, notice him there, in armor and _armed_. Away from her. Waiting? Waiting for what?   

Bastila had a bad feeling about this.

The weapon—?

No.

Revan slapped the thought away, sending it spinning far from her. Your side, not mine. Wasn’t that lucky? She sat up and recalled the ability of walk was also one she possessed and tried to recall how to do that again.

The door blew open, inward.

Obscenity. Her first impulse was to hold her breath before sanity return _._ Not space. A docking station. How could she have slept… _Others_. Through the Bond, his shock and pain, she felt him winking, laughing, told you we’d be found. Trust the Force, right?

Revan could no leap it. He was close to starving, mildly dehydrated and sore from being locked up for so long (her fault) and she knew the damage his head had taken. Malak was getting the last laugh now. Could he still be a credible opponent? He had his lightsaber. Republic soldiers couldn’t handle him unarmed, Bastila had seen that. He lit his blade and spread fire. He reeled and tried to be a Sith Lord and clung to the walls. Master of the Sith. Purple, heliotrope and amethyst-fire, not red, Bastila knew now.

She followed him.

For a moment, she wasn’t sure—then she reached out.

The Force _was_ with her, it hadn’t abandoned her after all. Revan would hurt whoever got in his way. He would take over the ship and steal away with it. It was instinctive to protect those in Republic oranges and yellows. A gut instinct that had been drilled into Bastila. Stop the Sith and never hesitate. Though she was unarmed, a Jedi was never without a weapon.

(If he died, she might die as well)

Their Bond might have helped (‘ _i’m tired,’ had he said that_ ) him hesitate. He didn’t even have that mask to protect his head now. It was easy to gather power in her hand and push him, shove him, to feel a red wave enter her head and bring it down on Revan. He didn’t have time to duck or turn his head.  

Soldier swarming, coming in with their blank circles of faces. All to be pushed aside. She had to go to him, to check and see and make sure—

Revan.

Rifles pouted at his head that were not set for stun. A swarm of armed soldiers over a bleeding man that looked thin and unarmed, all this for him, someone kicked his lightsaber away and she later realized it had been her, might have been her. She was standing over him. Words spilling out around her, a cacophony of whispers and yells _, is that her, is that Revan, is that the Jedi, the Padawan Shan, Bastila?_

Blood on his face. She had wiped that off though, cleaned him up. He looked downright small then, at her feet. Eyes closed. The pulsing wound of him. Hurt, he was hurt. That spray of blood. There was nothing responding to her probes through the Force. No matter how she tugged at him, that gaping wound in _her._ Hidden, did he hide from her, playing dead, his stupid games…

Someone was taking her by the arm, taking her hands from shaking him, pulling her away. Checking her over and calling for medical treatment. Others, there were others here, and Bastila was still alive and on her feet and a Jedi. Just barely, she could feel something warm on her face. What was that? What was that?

“Padawan Bastila, thank the Force we found you.”

* * *

 

Heavy shock, it was said.

Take this, Padawan. Here.

Rest now.

They gave her other things, and she took them easily and gladly. She did not want to see the walls of whatever ship she was on, and look upon any of the medical team members. Or answer any questions from the soldiers. All she wanted was reassurances that they would not harm the Sith onboard. He was a prisoner of the Jedi and the Republic. She was Bastila Shan, and a Jedi, and a valuable asset to the Republic, and no one was allowed to forget that.  

They were both injured, and it was important for the crew to remember that.  They were not monsters as the Sith were, to harm injured prisoners. Someone, the Commander, took over and made orders and time was spent nodding and agreeing to everything that was said. Please. Return us to the Jedi Council. We had a mission.

She was not wholly herself, a doctor pronounced, peering into her eyes with a dazzling light. Hard to say the exact damage that had happened. Poor girl. Don’t worry. We’re almost there; it won’t be so long now. She could hardly stomach the food and was given light portions, fluids, vitamins. Soldiers, certain high-ranking ones, watched Revan, it was reported. He was some Sith, they were told. A minor Sith Lord governor from a minor world. He had valuable information. The Republic would see to him soon. His life was in doubt, they told Bastila. He seemed quite unresponsive to stimuli.

Bastila told them all sorts of thing and demanded they be brought to the Order and slept and slept until someone touched her shoulder and said “ _Padawan Shan, you are here.”_

Then she would awake in sunlight, in brightness she had forgotten had existed, in a bed with comfortable sheets on a planet she had spent years thinking about and had only been on twice. She had known it immediately. The Force was alive and warm in this place. This white structure. There were fountains that would burble endlessly and the gardens somewhere outside and entire wings filled with Jedi knowledge and learning, all of what they had saved from Ossus.

This was Coruscant and the Jedi Council waited. She had returned.

Food, fresh and warm, made her weep uncontrollably. Set on a white plate on a wooden tray. Hungry, properly hungry for the first time, tears still falling and sliding down her face, Bastila had eaten. Even when her stomach protested and she finally wiped her eyes on the sleeves of her new robes. Cool water in a clean glass after a night on white neat sheets. Only after it was gone did she take full order of where she was and what this all meant. 

She couldn’t look away from the windows.

A reminder that Bastila was here, and had survived and this was not all a fever dream. Over a month.

See your wavering reflection there? You are here.

There were little signs of what she had been through. Oh, a thinness to her face to be sure. Dark smudges under the eyes. But she hardly looked like a person that had held a Sith Lord at bay for over a month, more than that, so many weeks. Only under her clothes were the marks visible, and Bastila was grateful for high collars.

Someone had removed the torn ribbons from her hair.

When she found the refresher and crawled into the sonic shower, no one came to knock and bother her. Bastila could sit there with water rushing over her, hot, and fell her hair clinging to her face.

Is this happening? Did that happen? It was cold when you pressed your face into the tile, and for a second, Bastila could close her eyes and slip back to that ship. She was still there, and any second he would poke her forehead and tease her or push her aside so he could slip next to her and there would be heat again.

It was Master Vash that came to her, to help her fasten her robes and comb her hair, and would hold her hand and led her through the halls. “You have been through so much already, yet you must continue to be strong.”

She was an older woman, with laugh lines and grey eyes, known for kindness but not pity. That’s why they had sent her, perhaps. Her hands were warm and steady, and held Bastila’s shoulders without hesitation. Bastila was a Padawan again, not a little girl, and one that could remember her manners and to be ashamed of the weakness in her knees and what had happened to her Master. She’d had a duty.

“Is he still alive?”

“Yes.” But Master Vash hesitated. “You are the only survivor, and he is in no position to speak to us.”

She recognized all the Masters, some of the Knights that glanced at her in the hallways. They were keeping quiet certain things up, Bastila surmise soon enough. Hiding that Revan still lived, and spreading tales of his demise. At her and Malak’s hands, Bastila supposed, could suppose. 

She was led before the Council. She knew their stories. She knew every face and name. They were all Jedi were supposed to be.

(Had he told? Had he told them everything? He had. He must have. Revan had told her he would, if they were found. He would make sure everyone knew of her failings and doubt. He had _told_.)

Why had Revan been free of all restraints? What had happened to her lightsaber? What had happened in that ship? The Republic Navy has searched for them both, and had found no sign of them. Why had it taken so long for them ( _them_ ) to enact the signaling device for them?

None of them had missed anything. Bastila could hide nothing. Because I was afraid. Because I was afraid of being _found_. _By the Sith_? Yes, she would say nodding, and leaving out, _and by the Republic_. He had been freed because of their Bond. Revan had not told her of how he’d acquired so many ships for the Sith armada. She had lost her lightsaber.

Very well, Padawan. They would decide his fate. Her fate as well. One and of the same, it was explained. There was nothing they could do to remove the Bond. She must be strong.

“Yes, Masters.”

Before any other detail could be revealed, now she could tell them of her headstrong, foolish decision to rush ahead and faced Revan in combat. It was all her fault. She was all that was left of the Jedi strike team that had sought out Revan to capture the Sith Lord. There should have been another way, to spare her fellow Jedi.

They did not accuse her of any wrongdoing. Instead, they unbuckled her knees and blinded her eyes: We are proud of you.

She could hear his laughter, the bite of his teeth and even sharper, his tongue, against her ear, _but they don’t know you like I do._

Had he said anything, under her care? Had he explain the strength of the Sith Fleet?

No. No, communication with Revan had been complicated. He had never told her anything of his powers. Bastila did not lie, but how to explain his state? He did not tell me anything.

“No, Masters.”

The brain damage had been severe. The Council found little worth saving when they inspected him. Surely his mind must have been too traumatized for anything as complicated as explaining his plans to a Padawan, they agreed, or why else would she have freed him of the restraints. She had been too compassionate, foolhardy; Revan hadn’t even been wearing the restraining collar.

Yes, what of Revan? What would happen to him? Did he still live? Was he their captive? Would he help them, return to the light side? 

They didn’t know. But they did know the heavy blow he had taken by Malak’s hand, yes, by that, serious trauma to the brain, and there had been damage from the dark side, and he had gone so long without proper medical attention, there was no way of knowing how much of _him_ remained and there had been little any Padawan could have done for him. He didn’t seem to understand what had occurred. It had been remarkable even that Bastila had captured him. But he did live, by the Force, he lived.  

“May I see him?”

It was heavy on her tongue, the next words that could not be spoken, What is left to see? And, Why?

To her horror, to her relief, the Council turned to each other and came to a silent agreement. Yes, it would be best, perhaps interaction would help him? They did share a Bond.

Master Zhar led her to him. So strange to see him here, worn and tired, and in robes that looked humble in this setting. Guards lingered around, trusted Bothans and Republic soldiers heavily armed. Echani even, in the corner and silent and bright-eyed and she envied their hard unblinking eyes. Only one made glanced at her in curiosity before quickly turning away as though expecting to be chastened, and so fast that Bastila hadn’t seen so much as her features. No droids. Medical personal waited nearby. Jedi Guardians armed and cautious stood outside his door. He was a thing ruined, but still they worried, and they nodded to Bastila and let her pass. They were all in on the secret.

A private room that was partitioned and split by a heavy screen. They were taking no chances. It smelled of antiseptic and kolto.  Clear and heavy. Through it, you could see the captive. Bastila needed a moment to recognize him.

He was awake, if not entirely aware.

Again, Revan had a neural collar on. Stronger this one, somehow. Turned all the way up and left him only able to stare and hardly blink. He could hardly hold the moisture in his mouth. His skin was somewhere between grey and purple, bruised, dead. Loose clothes of the infirm that made him look like a bad joke. His head had been shaved, and there was funny reference to something Bastila couldn’t remember. The heavy bruised face looking less flat now, swollen and surely painful. Eyes bloodshot and glassy. Could he see her?

How much of that material separated them?

Soon, there would be even more surgeries, Bastila had been told. Revan would be taken further from her, the entire galaxy, set adrift in hopes he would return to them. Her hand, and Malak’s, had helped form this. They and the discreet medical team that had been found. There had been damage, Bastila had been told. A long time coming, Bastila was informed, and there were medical terms used to explain his state. From the original fall, the corrupting influence of the dark side, and none of that offered any comfort whatsoever.

She and Malak had done this.

Master Zhar helped fight for him. To spare what they could of him. Keep his memories intact, if at all possible. Allow him to continue existing. Revan had once been one of his apprentices, years before. The Council had tried to probe, and found little left inside him. Whatever was left only raised more questions.

They would not murder him. Jedi did not kill prisoners. But there was still the question of what to do with him. In the way he told her, Bastila knew Master Zhar wanted her opinion, and even with all that happened, Bastila could take some pride in that.  

Now, sitting there, he should have begun leering and making jokes. Taunting her and asking how much she had told the Council of their little trip. Revan had wanted nothing more than that. Had she told them everything? Did they know the truth, or further think of him as a monster and she a helpless little victim? Did they know how she had _begged_ for him?

Instead…

There was only this thing here.

What was that thing that looked at her, incapable of even recognizing her?

Who had she been traveling with? Who had she brought back? No, even that wasn’t the right question anymore: _what_ had she brought back to the Order?

Revan, they called him for now. Soon, if all went well, he might be changed, utterly changed. There was nothing to be salvaged. He might be given a new name and a different life and past history. _Soon_ , Master Zhar told her, his accent soft and gentle. But her responsibility would not end there.  Revan would redeem himself, whether he knew it or not.

Bastila would go back to the Republic military she had missed. They would fix him, change him, make him a different man if possible. Their mutual rewards for a successful mission.

But this was now. There was still this. Sit there and look at him. It was what she deserved.

All Bastila could do was raise her hand and reach for him. Even then, they were separated by more than this partition. Look at him. He no longer had the Force. Even their Bond must be weakened. The trauma that had been inflicted on him, worry of aneurisms and blood clots. Many surgeries planned ahead. Even his teeth and tongue were injured and speech seemed to be beyond him.

What if it had been a ploy? Some lovesick Padawan (no, she hadn’t been that) creating a fantasy to help ease the fear of her death. Or was this the dream and had she died onboard the ship? Any second she would wake up under his cloak. Or it was all real and was she now ( _stuck_ ) freed from Revan?

All she could do was replay and affirm when they had been found. Sometimes, Bastila still heard the sound he had made when falling. He had taken the choice from her entirely, and that could not be forgiven.

For once, Revan did not make a show of things. Instead he sat there, his chin nearly on his collarbone.

Now was the time to say goodbye, Bastila had been advised by Master Zhar. Master Zhar that knew just enough. He had once trained Revan.

Say…

Tell him just what, exactly? Weep and plead for him to come back to her, and she would spring him out and find a ship and they would run away together and live some fairy tale out on some back world planet? Didn’t the woman in stories at least somewhat similar to this cry and rend their garments in sorrow? Bastila reached through the Force, for their Bond, and found only a sleepy black void. He said he would take her to Talravin one day.

Was this despair in her heart, or just a bitter, swooning _relief?_

Freed, oh, she was so freed from everything. No longer avoid contact, or terrified of how she felt, so sure of her upcoming death. Never again would she stumble through another lecture on human contact or even trying to be some kind lover to a man that didn’t deserve such affection. Untethered. Bastila wanted to leave, to run whooping through the halls for the fact that she _could_. No noose around her throat, the yolk loosened. Put them on Revan. He did deserve it.

Take _him_ instead, a voice whispered. That had been the mission, after all. Capture Darth Revan, and she _had_ and even brought him here to face justice. After having known him so intimately and spoken of affection and dreams of a different life they might have had together if fate had been kinder. All forgotten and tossed aside and _gladly_. What type of person did that make her?

A Jedi. A _Jedi_?

We were not friends, were we, Revan? _Were_ we? The things she could never share with another, not even him anymore. That part was over with. But you were part of me, and even now, we are Bonded. For now, anyway. In time it will dissipate. That’s what the Masters informed me.

A narrow bridge to safety they offered. Yet it was still hope. It’s all over.

Whatever else might come of this, _that_ part was over.

Still, the Jedi hadn’t forgotten what had been said, not all of it. His reluctant admittance that he would have let her go had they been found by the Sith. When he had tried to spare her from possibly attacking Republic soldiers. Yes, she would believe he had been trying to keep her safe, in the end.

_Do you know what’s going to happen to you soon?_

He looked less and less like Revan, from the damage, his silence, the grin that twisted his features gone.

They were running IVs through him, as he wasn’t entirely able to eat solid food just yet. Either his mental facilities were gone to such an extent, or the damage to the jaw had been too severe. Bandaged and turned half-anonymous. There was talk of light facial surgery, to repair the features. By the time they were done with him, Bastila might not even recognize him, and that too might be a relief, later.

“Can you even understand me?” She put her hand flat against the glass, hoping for some shift of his eyes. Any reaction. Just a _sign_ that she had known him, and it hadn’t all but a lie and a mistake. Stretch out for him, and find nothing. Their Bond had been weakened, from that collar and the pain and drugs. If Bastila lost concentration, her own head began to ache.

_Are you real?_

“Are you in there?”

Only lack. Just a man.  And her a Jedi. One that would be leaving and would never see him again. The Masters had promised that even their Bond would dissolve. _Soon, Padawan. We will see._ Bastila began to stand.

A tremble to his limbs. She remained standing. Revan was still himself. A rising emotion, hope and terror. Trepidation, Bastila allowed later. What if, after all, he had been faking all along and would now strike? His lips parted, his hand rose, and rose, and sought out much like a fish might respond to a finger tapping on the glass. The tips of his own fingers found their way against the glass. So light a swipe they left no mark. Revan seemed to be as blind as his old Master.   

_Are you real?_

Yes I am.

It was the best he could do it seemed.

The Jedi could watch him, wait for another reaction, waste more time waiting for the slightest hint that he might be of use to anyone. The Council would do what they could, what they must. She had been such a good example to their Order by bringing about his defeat. Because of her, the Sith had been dealt a heavy blow. Revan was no more, and she was told that was a good thing all around.

Goodbye then.

Bastila left without a backwards glance over her shoulder.

Back.

To her room with its cheerful natural lights and a bowl of flowers set on that table. Soon she would be sent to Dantooine or back to fight the Sith. With or without Revan, they were still winning this war. She will go to the front of the battle and another day will pass and then another. You will die with your teeth in an enemy’s throat.

Grudgingly, the Masters agree with saving Revan, Bastila would notice and realize later. Only some were proud and glad of her actions, but reluctantly so. Some had not wanted him back, some had wanted him to die as if they did they not know about their Bond or did not care. Later, there would be arguments never spoken to her but whispered when they thought she couldn’t hear. They fought over Revan, over her, over the merits of helping him, what helping him would consist of, what were they to do with him now.

Later, some point later, she would do her best to argue for sparing both his life and his mind. He was still a person and deserved a chance to redeem himself, knowing what he had done. Not just go through whatever new life, confused and hindered in some way he would never know. He would not even have the Force anymore. Bastila would argue for his life, and then hear that he was to be sent to the Republic, someplace where he would be of use.

Their Bond still held strong, despite it all, and in the dark of the bunk of the ship back to Dantooine, alone, she knew it was the only connection she was allowed.

But she would not write to him or speak his name again.

She would tell only the necessary people of what had happened, and to everyone else, Revan had died, been betray by Malak and defeated by the Jedi. Another failed Sith. Darth Revan was dead, his throat torn out by his apprentice, and all the Sith and the dark side did would be destroyed. Look at how they turn on each other.

(she might see him again in nightmares, where he turned onboard that bridge as fires bloomed behind, clutching his ruined throat with one hand as the other sought her help, mouth full of black blood)

The other Jedi would look at her differently.

Perhaps with enough time, memories would return and Bastila could find how the Sith had gathered their strength? Perhaps they would return to him, and then her? They would share that one last thing and nothing else. In the meantime, she would just look out this window and see her wavering expression that was told that soon everything would be okay. Eventually, she would leave this room and return to the other Jedi and then the Republic Fleet.

Bastila would not think of him so much. In time, she could nearly forget about what had happened and who she had been stuck with, and that entire ordeal would be left out of the official stories that reported she had defeated the Revanchist. With enough time, the lie would not feel so shameful, Bastila supposed. There would be a point where she would rarely dream of him, and if she did, it was of the Revanchist, encased in armor and bearing a weapon at her. The Bond did seem to twist and flick, recede and half-lost as though it was being sunk under the waves.

They would grow apart and separate with time.

She would make peace with what happened, Bastila vowed. She would come to grips with it as a Jedi, passionlessly and without emotion. She must make her peace with the fact that somewhere Revan was out there, still alive and under the care of the Jedi Council. It was _somewhere_ out there, and the galaxy could be a large place. Life was precious, even Revan’s, and the Republic needed all the help it could receive. She chose to believe that. Somewhere out in that galaxy, the rest of the Sith waited. For a moment, Bastila might have a Vision, but it was one she didn’t need. Bastila knew how things would go in the future.  

Somewhere, there was a Jedi Padawan that would wake one morning, and find herself crafting a new lightsaber, one more dangerous, and she would begin to fight again. She would return to the Republic, and the Sith, fight Darth Malak instead of Darth Revan. She would use her gift of Battle Meditation all the more as the war continue on. She would be a great Jedi one day they would all tell her.

And somewhere, somewhere in the galaxy a newly drafted soldier in the Republic would wake up and report for duty.

 

 

 

 

 

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Trapped](https://archiveofourown.org/works/8976703) by [BeMyDarkling](https://archiveofourown.org/users/BeMyDarkling/pseuds/BeMyDarkling)




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